


New Beginnings

by perelleth



Series: It Takes Many Lives to Make One [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Compliant, Family Drama, Gap Filler, Politics, Second Age, Valinor elves don't understand Middle-earth, family comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:01:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 57,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28433580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perelleth/pseuds/perelleth
Summary: Settling down -and sailing West- becomes an entangled -and at times hilarious- family affair in Lindon after the War of Wrath. Lands to settle, cities to plan, a fleet to build, relatives to annoy, decisions to make. These are the early days of the Second Age.Chapter 12: New Beginnings. In which Finarfin practices the noble art of gaping, Elros finally grows into his kingly demeanour and Celeborn experiences Gil-galad’s unique way of ruling.
Series: It Takes Many Lives to Make One [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2131302
Comments: 24
Kudos: 61





	1. Sparks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Celeborn tries to escape one king -only to run into another- and Finarfin loses yet another argument with his daughter.

Lord Celeborn walked aimlessly among the trees, allowing their song to seep into his troubled fae. Things were changing at an almost unbelievable pace, and suddenly his peaceful corner of Middle-earth, east of the Ered Luin, had become the uttermost West. Beyond there, where once fair Beleriand had stood, now the mighty waves of the Great Sea roared proudly.

The elves from Arvernien and Balar, the Sindar and Wood-elves who used to roam freely in Ossiriand, and even those who had followed the remaining sons of Fëanor, all of them had crossed the mountains and now crowded the shores of Belegaer in the lands that had been known as Lindon of old.

The Edain, too, as well as many Naugrim, not to speak of birds and beasts, and even the mighty Onodrim, all had fled the destruction following Morgoth’s fall. Celeborn was still livid at the utter disregard the Valar had -once again- shown for his beloved Middle-earth.

He had been happy to meet many long-thought lost friends among the survivors; Círdan, for sure, and most of the Shipwright’s household as well. He had learned about the fate of his kinsowman, Elwing, and her children, and had seen the bright Silmaril crowning the brow of mighty Eärendil, Turgon’s heir...How it was that the doomed jewel had again found its way to a Noldorin master he could not fathom, but he had cringed to see it returned from Thingol’s house to Finwë’s, after all that had been lost.

About the fate of the other two, he could not care less.

He shook his head to discard angry thoughts. He was disturbed by this intrusion. For some sun-rounds now, before things had come to utter destruction, they had crossed the mountains -he and Galadriel- and dwelt in Nenuial, strengthening the land and learning of its peoples, mostly Sindar and Avari who forsook the Great March, but also Edain who had never crossed the Ered Luin.

They had been building a refuge for times to come and now, when the times had come indeed, he felt absurdly angered and resentful that his quiet existence had been disrupted by what he had been preparing to face. He had grudgingly left their stronghold in Nenuial and had moved to the new shores to greet –and help- those new arrivals.

He inhaled deeply and tried to atune his breathing to the wind on the leaves. He knew that he wasn’t being honest. It was not the arrival of such crowds, or the Silmaril, or the fate of Elwing’s children that had made him touchy and short-tempered.

The actual reason for his moodiness was other.

The Army of the West.

He had nothing to object to the help provided by the Valar and the mighty relatives from the Blessed Realm…except that one of those was King Finarfin himself, the High King of the Noldor, and, above all, his wife’s father.

Along the years, he had come to create a very friendly picture of said Elf in his mind. He would surely be someone who would resemble Finrod in his best moods: an easygoing, open, calm, peaceful and loving adar. He had been utterly shocked when confronted with the mighty Noldo, his piercing grey eyes alight with the fire Celeborn had almost forgotten that shone so bright in all those who had beheld the trees, not just in his wife. With his sword ready, his hair undone and matted, his mail shiny _and_ blood-stained and his face stern and demanding, he was Galadriel, pardon, Artanis, in male, kingly version, and that thought almost made Celeborn's knees buckle again.

He had been stunned as a Naugrim in front of that mighty figure, speechless as a stone in front of the blond king of the Noldor -who droned in Quenya in his otherworldly voice and smiled kindly -but exactingly- down upon all those Moriquendi who surrounded his beautiful daughter.

And so, at a wave of the king’s elegant hand, Celeborn had stayed apart with the rest, feeling utterly inadequate, but, above all, utterly angered at himself and at the amused glance he had glimpsed in his wife’s face.

He had been properly introduced after that, but he had not yet managed to overcome the mixed feelings of awe and reluctance that overwhelmed him in the presence of the imposing king. It was only sensible then that he would strive to make himself scarce and avoid being in Finarfin’s presence, as well as in his wife’s. The actual battle was taking place between father and daughter, after all.

So he walked instead.

He had sensed some discordance in the tree song in the last days, thought he could not fault them. The din was terrible, what, with so many people making camp there, messengers coming and going, the mighty ships and the bright armies of the West, the bedraggled elves from Balar and Ossiriand, as well as the Edain, all searching for a place to call their own and deciding where to settle... Different voices and different languages must have, no doubt, disturbed and worried the trees.

They had been calm and content for a while, now, grateful for his presence, he decided. Hoping that his mood could too be improved by their song, he went in search of a secluded glade he had claimed as soon as he had discovered it upon arrival.

He felt a childish irritation at the sight of an elf, comfortably sprawled under an oak -Celeborn’s favourite- looking completely at home in *his* glade. The fact that this intruder was the young High King of the Noldor in Exile, _or whatever he calls himself now that the actual king is around_ , Celeborn thought with wicked pleasure, did nothing to ease his mood.

“What are you doing here?” he glared not too kindly, right above the dozing elf who sat up in one fluid motion, fully alert and with his hand on the unadorned hilt of the dagger at his side.

“You startled me, Lord Celeborn,” the young Noldo said politely, looking up at the angry-looking elf. “Is anything the matter?" he added worriedly. “Is Círdan looking for me?”

“Not that I know...Should he, for any particular reason?” Celeborn inquired, amused in spite of himself.

“I think not,” the young king seemed a bit discouraged. “But it seems as if there is always something else that I should be doing these days…”

“Shouldn’t you be down there, then?” Celeborn suggested, trying -and failing- to conceal his eagerness. “Maybe he needs you now.”

“He knows how to find me,” the youngster said with maddening confidence, settling back comfortably against the tree trunk.

" _King he may be,"_ Celeborn thought accusingly, " _but subtlety is not to be mentioned among his traits."_

“Would you like to take a seat?”

 _Although he is well-mannered, at least I can grant Círdan that,_ Celeborn acknowledged grudgingly, sitting down with a tired sigh and closing his eyes in the hopes that it would discourage further conversation.

“How do you find these lands, Lord Celeborn?” the question came after a stretch of blessed silence.

“Adequate,” was the noncommittal answer.

“Adequate... for... all of us?”

The tone was carefully neutral, yet the question itself was not innocent, so Celeborn opened his eyes and looked briefly at the other’s face. The grey eyes were curious, but there was a subtle shadow within -worry, wariness, he could not tell.

“I would think so. If I remember well the tales of the Great March, it took our ancestors many a year to cross the lands from Cuiviénen to Western Beleriand. I am sure there is plenty of room for all of us, if that’s what worries you, _King Gil-galad,_ ” he answered pointedly, stressing the name that had spread across camp as of late.

He regretted his words almost immediately, though, as he saw the flickering of a wince in the young king’s face at his mocking tone, but he decided that offering his apologies would make the whole thing worse.

“I would say that is your lady wife’s father’s main concern, rather than mine,” the Noldo retorted, letting his annoyance flow freely with his words, “but surely you would know better.”

“Why do you say that?” Celeborn was now plainly exasperated.

“Well, he is asking questions…” the youngster observed, a smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth.

“Surely not to you,” Celeborn retorted sharply, “if he expects to gain some reliable knowledge of those lands.”

“No, not to me,” the Noldo agreed amiably. ”I am still awaiting his summons concerning…my…interpretation of his orders during the last campaign,” he grimaced.

Celeborn nodded at that. He had heard the tale, everybody had, of how the elves of Middle-earth had been commanded to stay behind, and how the king’s troops had not followed Eonwë’s counsel -or rather Finarfin’s orders, as it seemed the case now, the young king was braver than he had ever suspected- and had reinforced and protected the rearguard of the army from Valinor, while defending and evacuating eelven and edain settlements that were harassed by stray orc parties or fleeing enemies. He offered a sympathetic look at the troubled king.

“I heard you did a good job…”

“We did as much as we could. Nobody wanted to be left behind, and there was much to do before departing Beleriand,” he said flatly. “I am far more concerned with the future, now. I guess your lady wife is with her father presently?”

Something in the undertone told Celeborn that this was a serious conversation and that his condescending attitude was not a good idea.

“She is. How do you know?”

“Well, you seem to run out of sight whenever the two of them meet," the young king joked. “Not that I fault you,” he added hurriedly, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “I find your father-in-law a bit…intimidating,” the Noldo offered hesitantly.

“To put it mildly,” Celeborn agreed with a small smile. He waited patiently for the younger elf to reach his point.

“He is asking questions about who is returning to the Blessed Realm,” the other finally let go in a hurried flow. ”You know, the Valar have lifted the ban upon the exiles and have opened the road to the West for all the Eldar lingering in Middle-earth. There are many who are heeding the summons, but I suppose he must have expected greater numbers…”

Celeborn turned slightly to gain a better sight of the Noldo’s face. A small frown was marring his brow as he absentmindedly toyed with a piece of bark between his fingers, long and unexpectedly calloused despite his young age -surely from too much sword and spear and bow wielding.

“I believe he worries that these lands are not safe or suitable for those staying behind and…I wondered...you would have let me know if such were the case, wouldn’t you?” he asked openly, lifting questioning eyes to Celeborn.

Celeborn met his gaze calmly. He and Galadriel had been there when the first refugees arrived. They had met the leaders of Sirion, and Círdan’s counsellors, and Edain chieftains, and they had learnt much of their counsels and worries. But they had yet to meet formally with the young king of the exiles, who had arrived only three days ago with the bulk of his troops, while those of the High King of the Noldor had come in earlier their mighty ships, completely overwhelming the little harbour.

Meeting Finarfin and overcoming his scrutiny had been more than enough for Celeborn, and he did not particularly relish the idea of having to entertain yet another Noldorin king.

“You intend to build up a kingdom here?” he asked abruptly, arching an eyebrow.

“I worry that your lady wife may tell her father something about these lands that I –or Círdan- should have been made aware of,” he said without actually answering, Celeborn noted with suspicion.

”There are many people here, Lord Celeborn; people who lived in Balar and in Sirion, surviors from Hithlum, Gondolin, Nargothrond, Doriath, as well as the Laiquendi from Ossiriand, all have lost their homelands and are now looking for new places to settle down,” the young king continued evenly. “While Círdan is helping build the fleet that shall take the Edain west, I am charged with advancing plans for the settling down of those who would remain. Since you seem not inclined to give me a plain answer, I shall take it that you haven’t reached very far eastwards, and that you deem the lands safe and suitable, as far as you have reached.”

“That would be a good assumption.”

“I am glad to hear that,” the Noldo answered, a hint of sarcasm in his calm voice. “I won’t disturb your rest anymore, my lord,” he added, reclining his head against the tree trunk and closing his eyes.

*****

The High King of the Noldor walked under the trees with his beautiful daughter by his side. If he did not pay much attention to his surroundings he could _almost_ believe he was back in Aman, walking under familiar forests outside Tirion, enjoying a pleasant stroll while listening to her soft voice offering some witty reasoning or some piece of amusing family gossip.

“I have already told you, Atar, I will not return only to be kept as unwanted company in that forsaken island!”

 _Almost,_ he thought regretfully, for neither the subject nor the angered tone of voice fitted in his wishful thinking. _She is as stubborn as Olwë_ , he thought tiredly, _but no Teleri king has ever been more stubborn than a Finwion_. After all, he had married Eärwen in the end. “Honestly, Artanis,” he said patiently, “I cannot understand why you insist on staying! There is very little for you to do here, and these lands seem quite wild and dangerous to me…”

“Galadriel.”

“What’s wrong with Artanis?” Her insistence that the called her by that name was pulling at his nerves. “It’s a wonderful name, which suits you perfectly, and, casually, it was me who gave it to you,” he added, a bit petulantly, he had to admit.

“I know Ata...” she answered in a mellow tone, changing tactics, “but he who gave this name to me is my beloved and my rightful _husband,_ and that’s the name that sounds sweetest to me…”

“Rightful...” he groaned. That stung, still. “I cannot believe that your brother allowed that!”

“He…it…wasn’t easy...” she offered hesitantly. “But I won in the end!” She smiled brightly then, and her father knew that she was not telling the whole story. Most probably, watching her determined frown and her glare when she informed him that she _intended_ to marry that obscure and distant relative of Thingol's, his wise eldest son had simply decided that the battle was a lost one from the very beginning and caved in with a graceful nod.

“I know you did,” he remarked dryly. “Now, tell me about your court in that distant part... Nenuial, you called it? Is it safe there?”

“It depends. It is full of Moriquendi…” she grinned playfully.

“Artanis…” The scorching look she threw his way made the trick. “Galadriel,” he conceded with the utmost reluctance. “I am being serious, now. I can yet decide to have my guards lock you in my ship, you know...”

“You wouldn’t do that, Atto… would you?” she focused all her baby-daughter charm on him. Finarfin sighed, shaking his head. She had always known how to win him over.

“No. But I could do it. Now tell me, my daughter, I want to know exactly about the safety of your court, and the strength of your army, and how safe are those lands to the East…”

“Oh!” she was squirming now, trying to escape her father’s piercing gaze, “you better ask Celeborn, Atar… he’s more versed than I am in such things…”

“Galadriel….”

“I... wouldn’t speak of such thing as…a court, though,” she kept on airily. ”You know…green elves don’t use terms such as court… or kingdom…and they would never have a Noldorin queen…” se admitted with the greatest reluctance.

“But that’s… outrageous!"

“Well, yes, for them it would be, so we have to be very careful not to let our intentions be confounded with political ambitions…”

“I mean for you,” Finarfin snapped. “No child of mine shall be shunned in such manner! On the other side…maybe you would be safer in Ereinion’s court?” He winced at her scowl, conceding the point. Court wasn’t an appropriate word for whatever style of ruling his nephew’s son pretended to be exercising over his mixed, unmanageable and fiercely independent subjects, not to speak of his army.

They walked in silence for a while, listening to the contented song of the trees.

“I wished that you considered other options, child," he sighed softly, “if only for your naneth’s sake…”

“What good it would do to her to have me in the Lonely Isle, forever pinning for the lands of my childhood?” she answered thoughtfully, entwining her hand with her father’s as she had done so many years ago when they used to go together for long strolls and she would listen in awe to every word that dropped from her idolized atar’s lips.

“Is there the slightest chance that you would reconsider?” he asked after a long silence.

“Absolutely not.” Her voice had an edge of determination that her father knew only too well. “Just ask Lord Eonwë about my reasons when you have a chance,” she challenged. Finarfin cringed at the memory of a ruffled and annoyed Herald cursing Finwë’s line’s stubbornness after a meeting with her.

“I trust your word, child,” he said resignedly. “Even if I did not, I am sure I would like not what he would have to say, after all…”

***

Celeborn studied the younger elf carefully. He remembered the prince as a lanky child, back in the Havens, big grey eyes and a sharp tongue that matched an equally sharp wit. He had been a child, then, but the sadness had already been there. He looked older than his years, and it was no wonder, Celeborn thought with an unexpected surge of sympathy, for he seemed to take his duties quite seriously despite his young age. _“He’s never been a child,”_ he remembered Círdan saying of his young ward back at that time.

He was king, now, at hardly an _ennin_ , at the age at which most elves were still considered youngsters and given minor responsibilities. Feeling acutely aware of one’s shortcomings in front of Finarfin was too easy, even for one with long years of court experience, and Celeborn could picture only too clearly how inadequate this young king of a bedraggled host of the once mighty Noldor must have felt in front of his powerful uncle from beyond the sea.

“What are you doing here?” he asked suddenly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said, “What are you doing here?” Since you interrupted my musings, I thought it was only fair that I did the same to you…” Celeborn prodded playfully.

The Noldo cast a suspicious glance at him but answered willingly. “I was hoping to find a respite away from duties and prying eyes,” he stabbed back masterfully, Celeborn had to admit. He then shrugged in an unassuming manner. “I came across this glade the other day…but then... the trees were so restless by our presence… that I thought I might just sit here and ... let them become used to me,” he said thoughtfully. “What?” he added sharply, at the astonished look in Celeborn’s face.

“My apologies,” the amazed sindarin lord managed. “Only it was...startling to hear such statement coming from…you,” he tried to avoid fully disgracing himself.

“ _You_ meaning _one of those disgraced, exiled, doomed, cursed, stone-loving Golodhrim,_ I suppose?” the young king said lightly, although the hurt deep in his eyes was unmistakable.

There was no point in denying the evidence. “Yes, I suppose you are right,” Celeborn acknowledged mildly.

They remained in silence for a moment, and then the Noldo spoke in a soft voice.

“My father was born in Valinor, Lord Celeborn, as was your lady wife.”

He had rested his head against the tree trunk and closed his eyes, the ghost of a wistful smile crossing his tired features. Celeborn awaited in silence, berating himself for his careless words.

“He grew up among the Powers. He learnt to track wild beasts with Oromë's host, and take only what the forest would grant and be duly grateful for that. The Vala himself taught him the language and ways every _kelvar_. He, too, learnt to listen to the voice of the _olvar_ with Yavanna. All the elves learnt such things in the Blessed Realm. My first memories are of my grandfather and my father teaching me to listen to the voice of every living thing.” He stopped there, his voice unsteady, and he lowered his eyes for a moment, not ready to meet Celeborn’s gaze.

“We, Noldorin people, may have better ear for the song of the stones, Lord Celeborn,” he kept on hoarsely, “but... I know enough to hear Ossë’s voice in the waves, and to feel the distress in this forest. And I can still hear the lament of the forests that were drowned in Beleriand, but also of its stones; the mighty tower of Barad Eithel, the beautiful terraces of Vinyamar, and the carved walls of the Havens.” He lifted his face then, and pierced Celeborn with his grey eyes. ”We who were born in Beleriand will mourn its loss till Arda is remade,” he added softly.

Celeborn accepted the rebuke in silence, shocked by the yearning and vulnerability in that weary face.

“By your leave,” the young Noldo said, standing up with a graceful movement. “I can hear too that Círdan is looking for me,” he joked lamely, managing a brave smile as he bowed courteously and departed.

Celeborn was not surprised, then, to feel the trees around him spread their pity as a canopy fire, straining to comfort the retreating elf.

 _At least, I can now enjoy the silence,_ he shrugged; and snuggling comfortably against the oak he let his thoughts drift away in harmony with the song of Arda, ready to enjoy a peaceful time.

“Oh, Atar! Look who's here!” an only too familiar voice sounded too close for comfort.

“My lady wife, my lord Finarfin,” he smiled resignedly, standing and bowing to his wife and her Atar as they emerged from the other side of the clearing, mentally rolling his eyes at the Valar and their wicked sense of poetic justice.

**TBC**

**Notes:**

_Nenuial_ One of the many re-writings of the History of Celeborn and Galadriel says that they crossed the mountains some time around the fall of Morgoth and dwelt in Eriador, around lake Nenuial, (lake Evendim) with a host of followers formed by grey elves and wood Elves. _(Unfinished Tales, The History of Celeborn and Galadriel)_.

 _Golodh:_ Sindarin less than polite way of referring to the Noldor. It fell out of use among those friendly to the Noldor. (HoME 11, “Quendi and Eldar”)

I stick to Ereinion being Fingon’s son.


	2. Having Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ereinion has one of “those” days and Oropher makes friends with a dwarf.

Ereinion strode past a group of guards and returned their salute distractedly. He was fuming at how Celeborn had managed to get the worst out of him, and ashamed of his own speech and dim-witted rebuke of the Sindarin lord. “ _We who were born in Beleriand will mourn its loss till Arda is remade?_ _Ereinion you fool, as if this was a game of who has suffered most…_ he chided himself.

He winced, hoping against all hope that Celeborn might be stricken by a sudden loss of memory and would completely forget to mention that enlightened opinion to his wife, or Círdan, or his wife’s Atar, or…Unduly harsh voices caught his attention and brought him out of the miserable contemplation of his failures. A group of elves in brown and green surrounded two of Finarfin’s tall, blond and shinning guards, who seemed utterly perplexed by the angry words and menacing gestures of their opponents.

Ereinion elbowed his way up to the front of the group and could hardly suppress a smile. There in the middle of the ruckus stood a petulant elf glaring at the guards -or rather at a dwarf who stood between the guards, clad in the shiniest mail Ereinion had ever seen covering one from the peoples of Middle-earth. The dwarf looked mildly annoyed, even as the elf got dangerously close to insult.

“...And we will not tolerate this!” the elf was shouting, waving his hand too close to one of the guards’ nose. Apparently, the group of Wood-elves had been training when they spotted the dwarf with his elven escort and had chosen to express their disagreement quite loudly. They were clad in their under tunics, sweating profusely and holding iron shod quarterstaffs before them as they watched the discussion. 

“But, Lord Oropher,” the guard was almost pleading to the haughty Sinda Ereinion knew had been one of Thingol’s marchwardens, who had survived the sack of Doriath and had settled down in Ossiriand, proclaiming that he would not mingle with kinslayers. “He’s got a message for Lord Círdan...”

“Not any of these spiteful creatures will set foot in this encampment while I stand,” he proclaimed, and that was enough for Ereinion to take leave from his senses and step up.

“In that case, you are welcome to depart right now, Oropher,” he said seriously, and then a playful glint shone briefly in his eyes. “Or perhaps you would like to lie down, so as you do not have to eat up your words, my lord?” he smiled. His mock bow and words provoked amused chuckles from the audience.

“Oh, look,” Oropher turned to face the intruder and a scowl showed in his face. “The fosterling!” he said with scorn. “You would be friends with a dwarf, of course you would…but we Doriathrim won’t tolerate their presence here, child!” he added menacingly.

“He brings a message for Lord Círdan, and he will be treated with all courtesy, Lord Oropher,” Ereinion said evenly, clutching his fists and containing his anger with visible effort.

“Or? Are you threatening me, princeling?” Oropher taunted, letting the staff dance casually in his hand in a challenging motion that Ereinion did not miss.

“I am commanding you to give up your attitude and show due respect to a messenger...”

“You _command_ me, child?" the Sinda was almost choking in outrage, now. “The day is yet to come when I obey commands from a cursed G _olodh_!” he shouted, out of himself. “Let’s see if you can do something apart from _commanding_ , princeling,” he added, adjusting the grip on his weapon and adopting an offensive stance in one fluid movement

A rush of anticipation ran across the onlookers, and the guards shifted restlessly, trying to shield Ereinion.

“My lord...” one tried to grasp his arm, but Ereinion pushed him apart with a firm hand. He stepped up to one of Oropher’s companions and took his quarterstaff while Oropher began circling, taunting him.

“Come on, youngling, let's see what you can do without your bright toys… how do they call you now? _Brith_ -galad?” he joked, feinting and winking to the audience, pleased to see that his taunting remarks were met with amusement as well.

Ereinion tried hard not to fall to the provocation, although it was increasingly difficult as he felt his anger and frustration boiling inside. He weighed the staff in his hands, getting used to its balance as he studied Oropher’s movements, while a small voice within his head berated him soundly for letting himself become entangled in such a situation.

On the other hand, though, the chance for working out some of his disappointment and frustration in a good sparring match seemed more appealing each passing moment.

They moved in circles now, as the crowd moved apart making room for them. Stray voices of encouragement –and bets- were heard from time to time. Oropher thrust a couple of times, testing, and Ereinion blocked his strikes with apparent ease, although he could feel that a powerful hand wielded that wooden staff with firm decision.

“Is that all you can offer, youngling?” Oropher said, as he pushed the advantage of his heavier weapon with a series of thrusts that made the Noldo step back, even as he parried every blow with a deft hand.

“Enough to keep a dirty mouth like yours at bay, Oropher,” Ereinion answered, smiling mockingly, and with a swift twist of his waist, and a wrist turn, he cut through Oropher’s guard and hit him in the hand that balanced the staff. “You truly need to learn some manners,” he added, striking again at the same point and earning an amused cheer form the audience.

That enraged the already angered Sinda. Throwing caution to the wind he closed in with all his force, pouring blows down with startling fierceness. Ereinion was forced to retreat by Oropher’s raw strength. He ducked and parried, waiting for the enraged Sinda to make a mistake while keeping his staff in defensive motion, even managing to hit his opponent every now and then. Soon, though, he found himself desperately trying to block a particularly vicious blow, straining with all his force against the Sinda’s powerful strokes. He felt he was losing his ground as Oropher pushed him down, slowly but steadily.

“No bloody kinslayer commands me, child,” the Sinda groaned in his face, tasting victory, “You better learn that…”

Suddenly, Ereinion heard a familiar voice in his head. _“Every fight is a fight for your life, son, you must learn to turn disadvantage into advantage…”_ With a wicked grin, he let his muscles relax, as if conceding defeat, and let the weight and purchase of the other carry him down, as he nimbly put a knee to the ground and then rolled to one side, while Oropher stumbled and fell forward.

Ereinion regained his footing and weapon first and struck the ribs and then the rear of the Sinda. “And you better learn to fight, Oropher,” he laughed, bowing to the cheering crowd, “lest a child bests you...”

The Sinda was on his feet in no time, red-faced and spitting fire, seeking revenge, and launched into a punishing attack. Before anyone could call a halt to it, a well-known voice roared.

“What on Arda is this? Ereinion, stop it, right now!”

The onlookers opened a way for Círdan, who approached the battling elves with purposeful strides and an angry scowl upon his bearded face. Startled, Ereinion lowered his weapon and awaited doom with a grimace.

Oropher, though, was too enraged to pay attention to anything except the noisome Noldo, so he did not manage stop his charge in time to prevent the iron-shod end of his staff from connecting with his opponent’s head forcefully.

Ereinion crumpled down like a young tree stricken by lightning.

“I…told…you,” Oropher panted, scowling at the unconscious form sprawled at his feet.

“And I’ll tell _you_!” a mighty roar was heard then, followed by a blood-curling _“Khazad!”_ The dwarf picked up the staff fallen from Ereinion’s hand and charged Oropher in his midsection, sending him back and down to the ground and then stepping upon his splayed form.

“And now that you’re not standing, _“my lord,”_ the dwarf grunted menacingly, his iron-clad foot upon the elf’s chest and Ereinion’s staff against his throat, “I’ll set foot in this camp with your welcome and deliver my message to Lord Círdan, do you agree?” he demanded, adding some pressure to encourage his point.

“I can’t hear you,” the dwarf insisted, much to the crowd’s amusement.

“Yes, you are welcome!” Oropher shouted angrily, and satisfied with that, the dwarf climbed down the elf with a friendly smile.

“My thanks. Will any of you tell the young one that his friend has finally learnt his manners?” he asked of the laughing crowd as he threw away the quarterstaff and nodded to Círdan, who bowed to him.

“Lord Gundaghâl, welcome to this land,” the mariner said grimly.

“Lord Círdan,” the dwarf returned the bow and then followed the shipwright, paying no heed to the astonished looks of those present.

***

“Easy. This is going to hurt…”

“Ouch!”

“I told you to stay put, Ereinion! Anyway, that was a foolish thing to do on the first place!”

“Elrond…”

“I’ll shut up. But you know I am right. Here. Can you open your eyes, now?”

Ereinion obeyed carefully, feeling as if a spiked wheel was turning inside his head and poking at his eyes from within. He was so intent fending off the pain, though, that he hardly felt the last stitches.

“That’s it. A nasty blow to your temple was that, but no concussion, I’d say. How are you feeling?”

“How do you think?” he groaned angrily. His memories were blurry, but the anger and the shame were clear reminders of something that had gone awfully wrong, or at least wrong enough for Elrond to switch to his patronizing, healer’s mode.

“Here.”

Ereinion glared at the young Peredhel and the basin he had just placed in front of him.

“I am fine, Elrond,” he said in indignation.

“Just in case,” was the mild answer.

As he fought to sit up, Ereinion felt a cold sweat break over his brow followed by the dreaded wave of nausea washing over him. He hardly had time to double up over the basin before he started throwing up with dedication.

He was still retching painfully, cursing his own stubbornness and the creative ways the Valar found to humble him, when a melodious voice broke into his haze of misery.

“Lord Ereinion?”

The king of the elves of Middle-earth let escape an undignified growl. He was leaning on an elbow, naked from the waist up, his head threatening to part company with the rest of his hröa and retching helplessly over a basin. He was in no mood for visitors, for Ossë’s sake!

He groped blindly, and grasping the first thing his hand could get hold of, he wiped his mouth. Raising trembling fingers, he put aside stray locks of raven hair from his face and looked up to his untimely visitor. He let escape a pitiful whimper, then, and his hand flew up to protect his hurting eyes from the sight of the bright elf that stood patiently in front of him, clad in shining mail, blond as famed Laurelin and shimmering from within brighter than a Fëanorian lamp in the midst of a dwarf’s hole.

“Who let this flower in,” he roared in a voice he had trouble recognizing as his.

“It was me, Gil-galad,” Elros stepped into his distorted field of vision with a wide grin. “He brings a message from King Arafinwë…”

“Aran Finarfin,” Elrond felt the need to translate for him.

Ereinion inhaled deeply. He was finding the idea of murdering Elwing’s sons more appealing each passing moment. “Thank you, Elrond,” he said with undisguised sarcasm. He looked at the cloth he was clutching in his trembling hand, only to discover that it was his own tunic. He considered briefly wearing it, but discarded it with a swift movement. He sat up, then, clutching at the brink of the cot and closing his eyes, waiting for the tent to stop spinning before looking up again, his eyes conveniently shaded this time by one of his long and still shivering hands.

“So, what’s the message?” he inquired hoarsely.

“King Arafinwë sends his greetings to you, Lord Ereinion,” the elf said in his musical voice, bowing deeply as he spoke.

Out of habit, Ereinion returned the bow and immediately regretted it, as his head started pounding with a vengeance. “I hope he sends something else,” he growled, not too courteously.

“Yes, milord,” the messenger said unfazed, “he also sends word that you will be welcome to join in a family dinner in his tent tonight, as Arien sets."

Ereinion sighed tiredly.

“Tell the King that I… appreciate his invitation and that I shall attend.”

“Yes, my lord,” the elf bowed again, and seemed ready to leave. Ereinion lifted his other hand, though.

“Wait, what’s your name?”

“Cálëndil, my lord” the elf answered calmly.

“Cálëndil. Would it be asking too much of you… if… I hoped that you… simply delivered the message while omitting the...circumstances?“ Ereinion inquired, grimacing slightly.

The elf smiled openly, and it was as if a star came out in the middle of a long, shrouded night, Ereinion thought grudgingly. “Of course, my lord, I can do that,” he offered kindly, and then winked at him. “I knew your father, my lord,“ he added. “Back in Valinor, of course.”

 _Of course,_ Ereinion thought bitterly, _‘cause you stayed there and he died here,'_ and then loudly, “can I also ask of you, then, not to mention this conversation to him, either, should you ever meet him again?” he groaned.

The elf let escape a musical laughter and nodded. “Of course my lord, my lips are sealed.” And with a courteous bow, he left without awaiting his leave, Ereinion noticed grimly.

“We are invited too,” Elros chimed in happily, dropping brusquely upon the cot and causing Ereinion to wince at the vibrations it sent up to his aching head. ”A kingly reunion, you see, Finarfin, you and I.”

Even in his battered state, Ereinion perceived the minute wince that twisted Elrond’s face for a moment and felt compassion flood him.

“Yes, kingly thing, indeed; a king without a land and one who’s about to see most of his subjects depart for Aman….Finarfin knows how to choose his company, doesn’t he?” he joked. He was rewarded by a small but heartfelt smile from Elrond, while Elros, as was his wont, did not catch the hint.

“I wouldn’t be joking if I were you, Ereinion,” the peredhel smiled unabashedly. “I know for sure that Círdan doesn’t approve of such behaviour as you displayed today,” he added with a wicked smile

“And since when does he rely on you to let me know of his displeasure, young one?” Ereinon asked the impudent youth sternly. This time, Elros did catch the hint, and blushed slightly.

“I’m sorry…”

“You better are. Haven’t the two of you things to do, duties to attend, other kings to harass or something?”

With a happy laughter, Elros put his hand to his heart and bowed dramatically to him. “Of course, King Gil-galad, I have a fleet to build, after all,” he smiled proudly, heading for the entrance with a wide grin.

“Elros.”

“Yes, my lord?” he asked innocently, one hand already holding the flap up.

“You’re not mocking me with all that “Gil-galad” thing, are you?” Ereinion knew how to sound menacing, and took advantage of it.

“My lord, I’d never…”

“For I wouldn’t take it well... not at all… if you understand me,” the king said in a low voice that sounded like a growl.

He had no way of knowing it, of course, any of them had, but he looked exactly as his grandfather, then.

“No, my lord. I mean, well, yes I understand, but… do not think…”

“I will not, if you give me your word,” he said sternly, and was rewarded by the serious expression that crossed the peredhel’s face.

“I wouldn’t joke with that, my lord,” Elros said solemnly. “You are still our star and our light…even when battered and bested by a wood-elf!” he joked, and then ran away before Ereinion found something to throw at him, his laughter resounding in the tent.

Ereinion shook his head carefully and then looked up to meet Elrond’s troubled eyes. The Peredhil were having a hard time sorting out their feelings, now they had made their choice. Different in mind as they were alike in face, Ereinion knew that Elrond grieved while Elros had not yet taken in what his choice actually meant, except that it made him a king of Men.

He knew that he would have to find time to spend with both of them separately to talk about that. On the other hand, he was reluctant to broach the subject when it was so clear that they were both avoiding it as effectively as they avoided spending time alone with each other.

“And you, Elrond? No other foolish elf to prod or stitch?” he asked fondly.

“Oropher’s wounds won’t need stitching, I presume,” the Peredhel answered noncommittally, while he disposed of the basin and rearranged bandages and instruments in his leather bag.

“Wounds?” Ereinion sounded genuinely surprised “I don’t remember hurting him...except in his pride, maybe…” he recognized with the honesty that had been hammered into him since his early childhood. That earned him an open smile from the serious youth.

“It was the dwarf,” Elrond explained, relishing the look of utter amazement in the king’s eyes. “He took up your staff and charged him… Sent him down in a pretty undignified way, I must add,” he smiled, explaining the rest of the tale with unnecessary –but welcome- detail. Only, he omitted telling Ereinion that Finarfin’s guards had carried him off the field at their lord’s bidding. Wiser than his years, he perceived that was some piece of news the young king’s pride could perfectly do without knowing.

“Oh, so he was capable of defending himself,” Ereinion groaned, rubbing his aching temple. “I’m such a stupid…”

“You’re not stupid, Ereinion. It was the right thing to do,” Elrond observed calmly.

“Well, I really appreciate your words, Elrond, remember to tell Círdan that before he hangs me, will you?” Ereinion sighed as he got up. He rummaged in a chest and found a clean but much worn tunic. “I’ll go check the warehouses and barracks for the troops, I haven’t seen how they’re faring since we arrived,” he added tiredly. Of course he had not, what, with all the hustle and bustle with the settling, and the different opinions, and the different delegations. He shook his head as he put on his tunic and rearranged his unruly plaits, his mind already set in the tasks ahead.

“Be good, Elrond,” he admonished distractedly, waving goodbye to the peredhel and stepping outside with purposeful strides.

**TBC**


	3. Pleasant Encounters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Celeborn endures more kingly conversation and the Vanyarin heir wishes he were back home.

“… And I have no other choice left but to agree with my daughter’s desire to remain in Middle-earth...” Finarfin explained their conversation to a politely interested Celeborn while Galadriel failed at hiding her amusement. “A beautiful hideout you have here, Celeborn,” he added in a friendly tone.

Celeborn rolled his eyes mentally. _Why does everybody feel the need to assume that I am the one doing the hiding?_

“Oh,” he replied with a brightly false smile, “it’s a very popular place, my lord, no one could ever dream of hiding here!” At least he was being truthful.

“Maybe that is why the trees feel so uneasy...” the king said worriedly. “We felt their mood change many times, didn’t we, Arta…Galad…Daughter?” he finally settled for an uncompromising form of address.

“I wasn’t paying attention, Atar,” she lied unabashedly, while she carefully studied her husband’s face, trying to discern the reason behind his obvious efforts to remain composed. Celeborn though, knew how to keep his thoughts from her. “Shall we go back, now?” she added, putting a hand through an arm of each of her companions and urging them down the same path Ereinion had taken short before.

“I told my Atar that you would be pleased to enlighten him about the lands and the peoples, my lord,” Galadriel smiled charmingly, “for he worries that we are facing unknown dangers, and that the Sindar and the Wood elves shall resent my presence…” Her eyes were laughing merrily. Celeborn’s glared at her with a promise of sweet retaliation as he searched for the most uncompromising answer.

“There’s no need for such worries, my lord,” he started, and then stopped abruptly even before Galadriel tugged at his arm.

They had come out of the forest and up the small hill, in time to see the king of the Exiles sparring with Oropher, both armed with quarterstaves and surrounded by a cheering crow.

They watched in silence, each furiously searching for something polite to say that would not give away their obvious preferences too clearly, when Círdan arrived and tried to put an end to such unbecoming display.

“Ouch!” The High King of the Noldor winced in sympathy when Oropher hit Ereinion. Celeborn grimaced, cursing the vehement Sinda inwardly. “That wasn’t fair,” Finarfin muttered, almost to himself.

“Look, my lord!“ Galadriel chimed in a falsely mellow voice, seeing the dwarf looming over Oropher, “your kinsman seems to have made a new friend!” she laughed out heartily. Celeborn felt an overwhelming urge to gag her and pack her back to Nenuial.

Finarfin was serious, his grey eyes focused on him appraisingly. “Was it common entertainment in Elwë’s court to hit the king when he had lowered his weapon, Lord Celeborn?” he asked, his tone deceptively smooth.

Celeborn inhaled deeply, wondering what would escape his lips once he exhaled, but his father-in-law saved them all from finding out.

“No,” the Noldorin king pressed on, waving his long hand in dismissal, “I would not think it was.” In one fluid movement, Finarfin disentangled himself from his daughter’s arm and started down the hill in long, elegant strides.

Celeborn could have sworn that Finarfin had made no noise or signal, but somehow the crowd became aware of his presence and parted silently to let him pass. Elrond was already kneeling beside Ereinion, Celeborn noted with a hint of displeasure, and Finarfin made a sign to his guards, who hurried to pick the unconscious king up and carry him away from the field, Elrond in tow. Then, sparing a moment to glare exquisitely at Oropher, he returned to the edge of the forest while Celeborn and Galadriel watched the scene in stunned silence.

”I will speak now with Lord Celeborn, if he can spare the time,” he addressed his daughter sternly. To Celeborn’s utter amazement, she curtsied obediently in front of her father and took her leave from them, squeezing his hand briefly in support and disappearing from sight at a brisk pace towards their own corner of the camp.

Celeborn sighed and followed Finarfin away form prying eyes.

***

High Prince Ingil Ingwion was having a bad day.

Actually he had started having bad days -an unusual occurrence for the prince of the Vanyar- since embarking in that thrilling adventure, such as it had seemed back then in Valinor.

The noble purpose, the fanfare and the glory of the army of the West, sent by the Valar to free the enslaved elves and lands of Middle-Earth from the power of Melko and all that, well, it had all lost most of its brilliance when hardly the first half of the passage had been accomplished and the Teleri and the Noldor began arguing about deeds past and lies and grudges he had thought already forgiven and forgotten.

Then, right before arriving, Eonwë had started acting as High Commander of all the armies, which meant that he issued commands and the rest were to follow.

To make matters worse, as soon as they had set foot upon the shores of Middle Earth, he had started fighting those awful creatures the likes of which he had never dared to dream of.

Only to discover that they were part of a host of the Edain, their allies; poorly fed, poorly dressed, poorly armed, but ready to fight back.

Fortunately, none had been killed, for the Vanyarin host, in their eagerness, had disembarked without their weapons and so the injuries inflicted to the edain had been incapacitating but not deathly.

After a short -but effective- briefing, they had been ready to plunge into action with a clearer picture in mind of what the enemy looked like -something Ingil privately thought that would have been better done while aboard, if only to save him from the endless discussions between Finarfin and Olvárin, Olwë’s eldest son, and from the embarrassment of attacking their allies upon arriving- only to find that there were miles without end to walk before engaging Morgoth’s host, because nobody had thought of bringing horses on board.

Thankfully, the exiles had horses, descended from those brought there by Fëanáro himself, so he was relieved to learn that at least part of his troops would be ready for mounted combat. But that fortunate circumstance, too, had been turned into bitter argument once he had the tactless idea of praising Fëanáro for his foresight aloud.

Ingil shook his head with regret while he picked his way carefully along the path that led to the less crowded area of the encampment, to fulfil a promise he had foolishly made short before. In those long sun-rounds in Middle-earth, he thought, he had learnt many things, improbable, as such occurrence had seemed back home.

But life moved so fast here that one had to be always alert, or run the risk of missing something important, or saying something unbecoming.

Death had been one of those important things.

When he had first heard of “the Gift of Men”, he had hardly understood what it meant. After another embarrassing comment, he had alternatively wondered and raged that they would accept death with such apparent easiness, that they would be ready to offer their short, mortal lives with such humble courage while he was still overwhelmed by grief every time he thought of the twenty-seven Vanyarin warriors who had been sent to Mandos' care in that war.

Middle-earth was so disconcerting, he thought as he reached his destination, a wide tent that stood apart from the rest of the camp, upon a small hill, surrounded by trees and enjoying a good view of the harbour and the makeshift shipyards, where the edain busied to build up a fleet that would carry them west to only the Valar knew where. The guards, clad in green and armed with lethal long bows, bowed to him with respect and something akin to awe, the same look he had seen directed towards Eonwë’s army by the Moriquendi in this side of the mountains.

“I am so glad that we finally got to meet this side of the dividing waters, Ingil!” a familiar voice brought him out of his musings, and he smiled at the golden who that bowed to him with an expectant grin upon her fair face.

“My dear Artanis…” he returned the bow and then, breaking with protocol, he lifted her by her waist and whirled her around as he used to do a lifetime ago in Valinor, when she was but just the youngest of his Noldor relatives, “or should I say Galadriel? I really like your new name, it just…fits you so well!”

“I am glad that you like it” she said, still laughing like the young maiden she had once been, “I have just seen my Atar choking to avoid saying it...”

“Oh,” he laughed. “But I would be the same, were you my only daughter and were I to discover that you had married a foreigner as soon as I could not see you…I can understand your Atar pretty well, my dear Galadriel!” His silvery voice made her epéssë sound even more precious, and she smiled with pleasure.

“Did you marry, Ingil? Are you a father?” considering his words, her curiosity was piqued, now, so the Vanyarin heir proffered his arm. “Come walk with me, and I will tell you everything!”

***

“We have been told that there are wide lands to the East, and great forests, this and the other side of the Misty Mountains, beyond the legendary city of the Dwarves and also to the North…”

Celeborn and Finarfin were sitting on tree logs in a quiet corner of the Valinorean camp. One of the king’s aides had brought them goblets of wine and had been sent to bring a message to Ereinion for that night’s dinner.

Celeborn spoke and Finarfin listened intently, his piercing grey eyes fixed on him. He made no questions, but seemed to miss little.

“We know, too, that there are many colonies of elves who forsook the Great March down to the south, beyond the Hithaeglir,” Celeborn continued. He was used to that. Elu, too, used to stare at him while he reported, and his mind, he knew, was bound to be somewhere else, stepping from Celeborn’s words unto unchartered territories. He guessed it was the same with the King of the Noldor. “They seldom travel west, but some have been known to do so, years ago, in search of their lost kin. Some are now dwelling with us in Nenuial, and would be willing to return east.”

Finarfin sighed and extended his long legs. “And you, Lord Celeborn? What would you be willing to do?” he asked kindly, although the intent look in his bright eyes told Celeborn that this was far from a plain question.

 _I will think about that once you’re all packed in your ships and well on your way back home,_ he thought grimly, regretting that was not a suitable answer. He sighed in deeply. “There is a lot to do,” he said instead. “There are pressing needs now, for those who remain…”

“So you are remaining, too.”

“Yes, my lord, I understand that your daughter already informed you…”

“She told me that she intended to remain in Middle-earth. I wanted to know if that, too, is your wish.”

Something in Finarfin’s voice made Celeborn consider his next step carefully. He was not questioning him out of kindness or just polite interest in his feelings. There was something else deep there, but for the life of him he could not even fathom what it could be.

“I think so, my lord.”

“You think so?” there was a hint of amusement in the king’s words, almost incredulity, but it disappeared as fast as it had showed. “Where do you intend to settle down?”

“I…we… we’ve been…living in Nenuial…” Celeborn felt a bit unsettled by this questioning. They had not yet discussed that, not in terms of _where are we going to live for the rest of our immortal lives?_ It wasn’t thus, between them, not since the fall of Doriath and the almost unspoken agreement that greater things were now on the move. They knew that they were needed here now, but that did not mean they would remain forever.

“Will you claim lordship over those elves, perhaps?”

“ _Those elves_ , as you call them, bow to no lordship that I could claim, my lord,” he answered a bit stiffly. “We have been welcome among them, and we have been helping them.”

“I see. Shall I take it that you will pledge your faith to Ereinion and stay here, then?“

“We have not discussed that yet,” he said, more stiffly than before, if that was possible. Finarfin had reached his point, he suddenly knew, and he liked it not, not at all.

An uncomfortable silence fell between them, and seemed to extend to their surroundings, for suddenly Celeborn was aware that not a voice, not a leave rustling in the wind, not a bird chirping Arien goodnight could be heard. Only the endless roll of Belegaer served now as a monotonous backdrop for an unnerving conversation.

“Have you ever considered sailing West, Celeborn?”

Finarfin was changing tactics, Celeborn observed warily.

Or rather was circling around a different target, for his attitude had not changed. He was kind but firm, polite and yet demanding, in that soft manner of his he was beginning to be familiar with.

It reminded him of Melian somehow, and the way she would force him to turn his soul inside out and find the truths that he did not even know he was hiding there. Only blunt honesty served then, and sometimes the queen had learnt a bit or two about herself when she least expected.

“No, my lord. What would be there for me that cannot be found here?”

Finarfin remained impassive at this bold statement. _He must have guessed I would say something like that_ , Celeborn thought.

“I am told that there are great and unexplored forests in Eressëa. I haven’t visited the isle myself, but my father-in-law knows it thoroughly, and always speaks with great delight about the forests of Tavrobel. You could claim a lordship there, Celeborn, as Olwë’s kinsman. Besides, I am told that your queen resides now in the gardens of Lórien. I suppose she would be glad to have you near…” Finarfin finally suggested in his low, soft voice. “Your wife would be close to her parents and her relatives after such long separation, and she would enjoy the respect and consideration that she deserves…”

Celeborn felt it was time to feel insulted, and he stood up with slow, deliberate movements, towering above the king.

“Are you trying to bribe me?” he growled, and then, “my lord?”

Finarfin shrugged, apparently unimpressed by his scowl. “I am trying to decide what is best for my daughter. I want to know where she will dwell, and what safety and comfort she will enjoy, and you sem unable or unwilling to offer a satisfactory answer to that, so yes, you could say that I am trying to bribe the two of you into safety,” he admitted unabashedly, but in his characteristically even tone.

Celeborn crossed his arms on his chest and glared in his most menacing manner. He was enraged at that elf, as he was at all his Noldorin kin, actually, for their air of superiority, their faith in their own knowledge and the calm and easiness with which they seemed to order life around them, or rather expect that life would order itself to accommodate even the lesser of their whims.

“So, you consider that I am unfit to take care of your daughter,” he said, anger plain in his, until now controlled, voice.

Finarfin leaned forth, resting his forearms upon his thighs and toying with the empty goblet in his long, pale hands, not meeting Celeborn’s eyes. They stayed in silence again for a moment, and then the king spoke.

“These lands have already cost me four sons, Lord Celeborn,” he said softly, “so dare not blame me for trying everything within my reach to protect my only daughter… and bring her back home to her mother,” he said in a hoarse whisper, raising his gaze to meet Celeborn’s with eyes that suddenly reminded him of Elu’s when he finally understood that he had lost Lúthien, not to Mandos’ Halls but beyond. It was a look of unbearable, hopeless grief, and all of Celeborn’s anger dissolved in front of that pained countenance, as memories of those four lively, kind and noble elves danced before his eyes. He sighed deeply, knowing that love hurt deeper than any sword, and crouched beside the king.

“It is not me whom you must convince, my lord,” he said softly. “She has already made her decision. I can only promise that I shall guard her with my life…”

Finarfin smiled sadly at him. “See that you do, young one,” he tried to joke. “You are her husband, after all...”

Celeborn nodded at that, and risked offering an unwanted piece of advice. “Tell her, my lord. Tell her that you worry. That will change not her mind... but… it may help her understand.”

Finarfin looked at him, and Celeborn shuddered again, pierced by those ancient, wise eyes that held the same raw pain any of his own people would feel at the loss of their beloved. 

_We all grieve,_ he thought, _Sindar and Noldor alike_ , _we grieve for the marring of Arda, deep in our very faer._ Suddenly that knowledge became admission, and the dams of pride and diffidence that he had built inside were overflowed by understanding and compassion, the gift of the wise.

“What am I going to tell her mother?” Finarfin whispered, almost to himself. “Five children we saw depart, and none shall return to us…” There was such despair in the fair voice that Celeborn was moved beyond tears, picturing for the first time the tragedy of those who had remained in Valinor -or had turned back.

“She will be back one day. I promise, my lord. Tell her mother that one day she will be back,” he whispered hoarsely, with a sympathy he had never expected to feel.

“And you, Lord Celeborn?” Finarfin asked him softly, tilting his head slightly to look at him. “Will you be ready to depart when her time comes?”

Celeborn narrowed his eyes at the question. Suddenly, a vision of a white ship and a sharp sense of loss speared him through, leaving him breathless. He sat back on the tree stump, holding the king’s knowing gaze, unable to speak.

And then his compassionate gesture was returned to him, in the form of a kind hand that supported him through his vision, and a sad voice that eased his newly open wound with a firm promise. ”You, too, will know the pain of parting, and will rejoice in the reunion,” the king whispered in a voice full of sorrow and pity. “For reunion there shall be, Celeborn, as one day, you too shall find your way into the West.”

And thus the gap was abridged and the wound began to heal, as the two elves sat there in the quiet sunset, sharing a grief that was older than the sun and that would last longer than any of them had ever expected.

***

“…But, fortunately, Lord Oromë stormed in and caught them in the midst of it all, and they were so frightened that they willingly remained within your aunt Findis’ garden walls for the next turn of the moon,” Ingil smiled, putting an end to another tale of elflings’ misdeeds in Valinor. Galadriel had laughed out heartily at it, and seemed thrilled to hear that her aunt had finally married and had been blessed with three adventurous little maidens.

“Grandmother Indis must be so pleased with these new additions to the family,” she whispered, remembering the tall, blond and kind lady, with her gentle blue eyes and her winsome smile, the same Finrod had inherited and made use of with his proverbial generosity.

“She is,” Ingil conceded carefully, guiding his cousin to a fallen trunk in the midst of the path and sitting by her side. “Although I bet she would be greatly pleased to see you back, too,” he added softly, risking a cautious look at his temperamental cousin.

“And your children, Ingil, are they so adventurous? I can swear I never heard a tale of you as a mischievous elfling,” she added, pretending a lightness that was deserting her only too clearly.

“Galadriel…”

“What do you want from me?” she snapped, turning to face him, her eyes alight with a fire that was still sung of in Valmar and Tirion.

“I just wished that you would consider returning with us,” he said simply.

“My Atar asked you to try to convince me,” she growled in accusation.

“Well, yes, he did, we are kin and this separation pains him… and I, too, would love to have you back home, Artanis, is that so wrong?” he demanded, his tone sterner at the look of distaste that was plainly written upon her fair face. “Your ammë will be distraught that none of her children are returning,” he whispered softly, “and there’s nothing here for you…”

She shook her head in disbelief and turned her glance towards the sea, a bitter smile dancing on her lips.

“Why do you think we came here in the first place, Ingil?” she asked abruptly after a long silence.

He was wise enough not to offer an answer.

“We had dreams, of lands that we could explore and order, of new things that we could see and learn...” she continued in a wistful tone. “You cannot even begin to imagine what the lands of Hither may hold, what wonders, what races, how many of our forgotten kin still dwell in the forests to the east… where your father once awoke under the stars…”

“Do you want a kingdom, then?” he dared in his soft, calming voice.

“Would it be so unbecoming?” She pierced him with her bright eyes, a mocking smile upon her face. “Am I not a granddaughter of Finwë?” She waited for a moment, and he held her gaze without flinching, a deed few could boast.

“No,” she continued, shaking her head. She resumed walking, holding his arm again. “I care not for a kingdom. A king is tied to his people, his land and his duty. My claim is wider. I want to travel far and see the lands, and help preserve what may be preserved of the beauty of the days past, and strengthen the peoples, that evil shall not again grow among us, and see Middle-earth become a place of beauty as Eru intended for it to be, before the time of the Firstborn comes to an end.”

“That’s a worthy endeavour, Galadriel,” he acknowledged seriously, “even if self-appointed…”

“And yet you want me to bow my head, and obey and pretend there is everything waiting for me in that island?” she replied, stopping again, trying to keep scorn and anger from her voice.

“Forgive me for intruding, cousin,” a deep, rich voice chimed in, as a tall, raven-haired elf came out of the woods, clad in black, his eyes bright with the light of those who have seen the Trees. A brief look at Galadriel’s tense demeanour and tight lips was enough for Ingil to recognize the only fëanorian in camp. “I could not help overhearing your conversation,“ he offered with a provoking smile, “while I was busy picking up wood,” he added, pointing to the forest.

“You may, or may not remember my half-cousin Curufinwë’s son, Ingil,” Galadriel said tersely. “He needs no other introduction, I deem.”

“We met in the battlefield, yes,” Ingil answered cautiously. “Well-met again, Lord Celebrimbor,” he added, bowing to the newcomer who stood tall and proud and defiant. The Noldo nodded briefly in his general direction, eyes locked with Galadriel’s.

Ingil sighed inwardly, bracing for what promised to be yet another family row.

“So I understand that you are not to return to the Blessed Realm, cousin dearest,” Celebrimbor said, his tone surprisingly soft.

“I will not submit to an eternity of pinning in a lonely island, whose native land was Aman the blessed,” she proclaimed, putting her hands on her hips. Ingil flinched at the proud tone of her words. “I, unlike you, Celebrimbor Curufinwion, made no wrong that I should ask the pardon of the Valar and endure their punishment.”

A small smile played upon the smith’s thin lips. “As you say, my wise cousin, my reasons are different, yet I approve and rejoice in your choice, which is mine, too. Maybe now we will at last be free to pursue our deepest aims…” he said in his pleasant voice.

“Well, yes, at least now you’ve been freed from your main obsession, ” she spat venomously. Ingil readied to intervene, seeing how Celebrimbor recoiled from the blow, wincing as if she had physically hit him.

“Eressëa is such a beautiful place,“ he chimed in, trying to ease the tension, “I think it would be wise if both of you would reconsider…”

“No!”

“Never!”

Both turned their angry glares against him and Ingil shrugged, raising his hands with his palms up. “I see,” he managed, and suddenly a deep longing for his calm, ordered and peaceful home almost overwhelmed him. _What am I doing here?_ he wondered, “I will not insist,” he added aloud. “It is getting late, Galadriel, and your atar expects us for dinner at Arien’s setting,” he said, proffering his arm.

“Go ahead,” she said to his utter amazement. “I must have a word with Celebrimbor.” Taking the fëanorian’s arm, she turned her back on Ingil and dragged him toward the forest.

 _Enough! That is the end of it! That serves you well, Ingil, you fool, why did you accept to convince her on the first place? You know she’s as stubborn as Olwë, these children of Finwë are all crazy, they have always been, your father warned you!_ The flustered prince made his way back to Finarfin’s part of the camp in long, angry strides, berating himself soundly for what had just happened. _But tomorrow I will urge Arafinwë that we must depart with the first tide, or as soon as I manage to get my people on board. Olvárin is chafing and won’t pose any problem, and Arafinwë may remain with his stubborn daughter and her obdurate cousin’s son if he likes, but for the Lady’s sake, I will depart soon or they will drive me insane, too…_ Not even the prospect of a tasty dinner could improve his darkened mood, least of all the cheerful voice that welcomed him into his cousin’s camp.

“Greetings, Ingil, do not tell me that you managed to lose my daughter!”

Ingil closed his eyes and prayed to Manwë that an eagle picked him up and flew him back to Valmar all of a sudden. It had worked for Findekáno, they said.

**TBC**

**A/N** I go with Orodreth being Finarfin's son.


	4. A Kingly Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ereinion and the Peredhil enliven a boring dinner, Círdan has the time of his life and Celeborn and Galadriel compare notes.

Ereinion raced across camp, jumping over cooking fires, slipping through impossibly narrow gaps between tents and leaping over absurd fences erected to separate nowhere from nowhere else in that borderless camp, in a dashing - but vain- attempt at beating Arien at her own course.

After leaving Elrond he had attended a boring meeting with the group of architects and shipwrights in charge of drafting the first plans for the future settlement, and had almost despaired of making himself understood, or ever get rid of his raging headache. They had agreed to meet him the next day with a different approach, one that would not have shipyards and workshops invading the most productive lands in the surroundings.

Then, on the way to meet his troops -his original target- he had been ambushed by a young Wood elf and her two Sindarin friends, old acquaintances of his, who were worrying that the Edain were cutting too many trees for their fleet-building. Before the Sindarin youngsters declared him a monster and a tree-eater, Ereinion had agreed to meet them the following day to hear their case, and had invited them to gather information in the meantime and bring along solutions to avoid conflict between the edain’s needs and the forest’s well-being.

Three assaults later, and fully enlightened on the many daily inconveniences his people met in that temporary settlement –the long queues for fresh water, why couldn’t everybody benefit from the inventive water-supply system in the fëanorian area, the lack of suitable places for children to play safely in, the somewhat monotonous fare, why were the troops stationed there, and not there, or over there, or yonder? – Ereinion had finally managed to reach his destination without losing his patience, something he was secretly very proud of.

“Gil-galad! What happened to your face?”

"A long story, HÎrvegil, will tell you some day..."

Ereinion had smiled as one of his captains came to greet him. He felt at ease among his troops, made up of Noldor and Sindar from Nargothrond and Gondolin, some Sindar from ruined Doriath, Wood elves from Ossiriand and Thargelion and Teleri from the Havens. They had all gathered under his command for the last battles and the evacuation of Beleriand, and had toiled long together. They had all seen their homes destroyed and their peoples exiled, and they were united in their ferocious, relentless hatred of Morgoth’s minions and their hopes for a new life in that new land. Their devotion to the young king ran deep, built upon shared strife and hardship and fuelled by his understated bravery and a quiet but steady leadership Ereinion was not aware of possessing.

A couple of hours later Ereinion had visited the provisional houses of healing, listened to the healers and taken note of their needs, and joked with the wounded about the purple bruise onf his temple. He had seen the troops’ barracks and the new stables, had been informed that his stallion wasn’t feeling well, and had met with his captains to learn how his troops were doing and to discuss the needs for the new settlement and garrison.

”We have set up routine patrols to watch the perimetre, and hunting patrols as well. Some companies I have put to work helping the settlers, following your orders. We are making up a census, too, and building refuges wherever they are needed…” HÎrvegil reported. “As soon as we come up with a definite number of residents I shall let you know, Gil-galad. I suppose the architects must know about that, but I would like to be included in the drafting of the military areas...”

“You will be more than included, my friend!” Ereinion had laughed, remembering his previous meeting. “I would not let them have a say in that! It won’t be easy, though,” he had added thoughtfully, “as they still don’t know where to begin their planning, but I think we could start listing our needs and preferences.”

“I think that is a good idea. We could start tonight... Will you stay and have dinner with us?”

“Dinner?” Ereinion had looked up and almost panicked at seeing Arien’s hurried pace towards the Doors of the Night. “I am expected at King Finarfin’s tent for a family dinner as Arien sets!” he remembered, and had then started running, followed by Hîrvegil’s amused laughter.

“Remember to change your tunic, my lord! I will see you tomorrow with that list!”

Ereinion reached his tent unscathed, although panting heavily. With a pleading look to Arien, ready to hide behind the horizon, he lifted the flap and stormed in, intent on finding a clean tunic since the traces of the disturbed state of his stallion’s innards were clearly visible in the one he was wearing.

“How am I supposed to dress for a _kingly_ dinner!” he grunted in exasperation, kicking the chest that contained his belongings. He had been in the battlefield for the last sun-rounds, and the few garments he possessed that could be possibly mistaken for finery under an unsteady light were most probably still buried in some forgotten chest deep down in Círdan’s ship’s hold.

As soon as the feeling of dismay threatened to overwhelm him, Ereinion banished it from his mind. Early in his short life he had learnt that brooding helped achieve little practical benefit. It had not served to bring back his grandfather, nor had got him sent back to Hithlum, nor had helped ease the feeling of isolation that had presided over most of his childhood years as a foreign elfling in the Havens, so -smart child as he had been- he had soon discarded brooding from his list of allowed mental activities.

 _After all, my atar looked lordly even in the plainest of clothes,_ he told himself fondly, picking out an unadorned linen shirt, the likes of which Círdan’s mariners used in the festivities, and that he carried along because it offered some welcome comfort against the coarseness of the woollen winter clothes and the harshness of the chain mail.

 _But then, you worshiped the elf, no matter what he wore,_ a voice within his head scolded him. _And you are not him…_ Bracing against any unwelcome feeling of inadequacy, he donned his cloak, rearranged his dark hair as best as he could and stepped out and towards the Valinorean corner of the camp, resisting the urge to run and settling instead for a dignified pace that suited better his kingly demeanour, he hoped.

***

“It is a mighty endeavour that you have set for yourself, Elros, building such a fleet to carry away all your people…” Finarfin was addressing the wrong peredhel, Círdan observed with barely hidden amusement. “How long do you think it will take you?”

“I have no clue, my lord,” Elros answered form Finarfin’s other side with his characteristic bluntness, “since I am no shipwright myself, but I expect to become one by the time this is accomplished, thanks to Círdan’s dedication,” he wickedly included the Mariner in the conversation. Círdan simply nodded in acquiescence and drank from his goblet to hide his amused grin at Finarfin’s confusion.

“Oh,” the king of the Noldor turned to face the right peredhel. “I suppose our Telerin crews would be glad to be of assistance, too,” he added conversationally. Círdan was the only one who noticed that Ingil almost choked on his goblet.

“I… don’t think they will have the time or inclination, cousin,” the Vanyarin heir said, after wiping his mouth carefully, his voice slightly strained.

“Why?” Finarfin looked utterly mystified, “It is not as if they are busy or something, they simply stay aboard…”

“I have noticed that,” Galadriel chimed in. Círdan had sensed a lingering tension between Ingil and her, but then, the whole family was an embroiled affair, he reminded himself. “Why is that, Atar? I have been told that uncle Olvárin climbs his ship’s mast twice a day...”

“He does that to exercise his muscles,” Ingil offered kindly, eliciting an unrestrained snort from the cheeky Peredhil. Even Ereinion seemed to have forgotten his gloominess for a moment. Ingil was everyone’s favourite teasing subject, Círdan thought with sympathy.

“Oh, well,” Finarfin seemed to be suddenly at a loss, a feat in itself, Círdan observed, his interest in the conversation fuelled by this unexpected turn. He put his goblet down and looked at the king of the Noldor with his eyebrows raised in polite interest. “It’s true. They...they promised not to set foot on the lands of Hither, though I did not think it would apply to… this area…” Finarfin eventually grunted.

The wicked glance both peredhil exchanged at hearing this was lost to everybody...but Círdan.

“But that… that’s…nonsense,” Galadriel was saying, “Have they been onboard all this time? Why would they do that?"

Círdan sipped the exquisite wine and tried to hide the fact that he was having the time of his life. To be honest, he could not remember having such fun since the time when Fingolfin had held a feast by the fair shores of Ivrin, hoping to join together Noldor, Sindar and Teleri and set all grudges to rest.

But the sight of this amiable Noldorin king trying to fulminate his irrepressible daughter while attempting not to offend his guests was as good as any possible non-conversation that might be taking place in his tent between Erestor and a certain dwarf-lord recently arrived. He had been reluctant to accept Finarfin’s invitation, sure that the dinner taking place in his tent at the same time would be more entertaining, but now he wasn’t all that sure.

“Because... I… I suppose it is because… _ofthekinslaying_ … More wine, Ingil?” the Noldorin king finally uttered in a pathetic attempt to change the subject. Ah! but Finarfin had not taken into account the doom of the Noldor, Círdan thought amusedly.

“I would say it rather has to do with the burning of their ships by the Fëanorians,” Elrond dropped thoughtfully amidst the silence that had followed.

“Oh, yes, Maedhros told us about that!” Elros clinched gleefully.

It was Ereinion’s turn to choke, and his performance was outstanding, as usual. He had been unusually subdued, Círdan noticed, but he guessed that his shameful behaviour earlier in the day, as well as its gloriously purple reminder, might have something to do with his darkened mood.

“I suppose that may be the reason, too…” Finarfin said weakly, not looking in Celeborn’s general direction, Círdan noticed with merriment. The Sindarin lord had been quite loud in his Noldorin wariness as a reaction against what he perceived as Noldorin haughtiness…and father-in-law’s apparent rejection. Círdan sighed, looking around from behind the rim of his goblet, gauging the moods of his table companions while Finarfin grimaced.

Galadriel’s pride seemed to have been freshly stung by the Valar’s offer of half-redemption and she seemed to be turning her disappointment against her Vanyarin uncle. The peredhil, on their part, were still to purge their human blood brashness and fëanorian upbringing, although how feasible that was Círdan could not tell, while the king of the Noldor in Exile was exploring the lowest levels of his self-esteem -with Círdan none the wiser regarding the particular reason for that self-deprecating mood in his usually even-tempered foster son. This situation seriously compromised Finarfin’s peace of mind, and Ingil’s mild belligerence was the last straw, it seemed.

“If you want my opinion,” the Vanyarin heir pressed on stubbornly, not noticing the shaken looks around the table, “I do not think that we should tarry much longer here, Arafinwë, pardon, Finarfin,” he added hurriedly, casting an apologetic glance towards Celeborn. “Those who are travelling West with us have been singled out and accommodation has been provided for them aboard, and they have great endeavours ahead of them, too,” he added pointedly, “before they can settle down in Eressëa...“

“Have you ever set foot on that island, Ingil?” Galadriel asked, her mellow tone fooling none…except Ingil, of course.

“Well, no, actually I have not, but I have seen it often from the heights of Taniquetil, and it looks like a completely wild place…”

Círdan had just put down his goblet, so he could not hide his wince.

“Oh. And that is the wonderful place where the Valar expect us, repentant exiles, to settle?“ she asked in a steely tone.

“Perhaps they thought you would like to settle down on your own and build your cities as suited you best?” Ingil suggested, the slightest touch of impatience tingeing his voice as he locked eyes defiantly with his stubborn niece.

The issue might have ended there and then, hadn’t Elros been liberally dosing himself with Finarfin’s wine. Now, he felt more than ready to add up to the debate.

“Well!” he chimed in happily, “So it seems that we all have to face new and uncertain lands… except for you, Valinorean lot, of course,” he added as second thoughts. Before anyone could think of gagging him, the disrespectful peredhel continued his inspired speech. “Although we can all agree that Gil-galad has the easiest lot here…”

“Do I?”

Círdan knew that tone. Ereinion's mood wasn’t bad, but foul, and that usually caused him to disagree quite vehemently with anything thrown his way.

“Well, of course!“ Elros' tone was a bit overbearing, patronizing even. ”After all, you already know what to expect...”

“On the other hand,” Ereinion retorted in a menacing tone, “I wouldn’t disregard the fact that both you Edain and the Eldarin kin returning to the Blessed Realm are heading towards safe, Valar granted lands, no matter how much building awaits you, while we cannot even start guessing what may be lurking two days east from here…”

“Middle-earth was a safe land, too, before Morgoth returned,” Celeborn pointed out soberly. Círdan lowered his face to hide an extemporaneous snort and concentrated in savouring the exquisite meal. Finarfin’s cook was a true artist, he thought with pleasure, savouring the seafood as if it wasn’t his daily fare.

“Know what? You may have a point there, Ereinion,” Elros was enjoying the attention, it seemed. “We must keep in touch about our progress…I wager I can beat you at building my kingdom!” he added with his youthful, contagious, foolish, drunken enthusiasm.

“Who cares? We are Eldar, after all,” Ereinion grunted. “We need not hurry,” he added scathingly, stabbing at his food as if the war wasn’t over and the enemy lurked in his bowl.

“You are afraid,” Elros laughed. Círdan had to bow at his recklessness. Ereinion narrowed his eyes and growled at the impudent peredhel.

“…And as Celeborn informs me, the lands to the east are quite safe, and scarcely populated, not only around lake Nenuial, with its mighty forests, not to speak to the mountains in the east... what are they called, now, Celeborn?” Finarfin’s voice was almost hysterical, as he tried to redress the situation.

Círdan truly felt for him. He was eagerly trying to adjust to everybody’s moods, much as his brother had once done in that feast many ennin ago, but there was no use. Things had a way of their own, and a storm was the better outcome for a charged atmosphere, the mariner in him knew. Still, in spite of his merriment, he could not help pitying the agreeable king.

“The Misty Mountains…” Celeborn’s lowered voice caught Círdan’s attention. He looked up from his goblet in time to catch the murderous look Ereinion was shooting at the Sindarin lord.

While Finarfin extolled the virtues and excellence of the lands to the East and the peoples that populated them as Celeborn had reported in detailed length -he acknowledged graciously- Círdan watched in worry as his foster son’s face clouded to thunderous and twisted into that suicidal frown that could be considered the trademark of his line.

“…So what is your opinion, Ereinion?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Círdan braced for the onslaught.

“How do you find the lands? You must have given detailed thought to all this, surely…” Clearly, Finarfin was so desperate to involve his brother’s grandson and heir in the conversation that he was missing the warning signs.

“Adequate…I found them adequate,” Ereinion all but spat, locking defiant eyes with Celeborn.

“Adequate?” Finarfin looked puzzled. He was distractedly raking the exquisite tablecloth with his dagger in a nervous movement. “That’s all?”

“Yes, adequate,” Ereinion charged, headfirst, without mercy. “Nenuial sounds as an excellent place, a place where the refugees from Doriath might found themselves at ease, even your kinsman, Oropher, Lord Celeborn,” he added with a sarcastic smirk. “I think they will be glad to settle down there with you,” Galadriel choked in a quite elegant but not wholly discreet manner, Círdan noted while he listened attentively to that interesting -if a bit heated- insight into the king’s politics. “That’s it, if they cannot be persuaded to move further east, for I guess they would make excellent neighbours for the dwarven kingdoms there…” Ereinion added with wicked delight.

“Oh,” Finarfin was gasping for air.

“Lord Círdan and his people are more than happy by the sea,” Ereinion ranted now relentlessly, not noticing the varied degrees of dismay upon the faces around him, “and the few _Golodhrim_ that shall remain, once you all depart for that Eru’s... appointed island,” he trod very carefully there, “well, we may be easily contented, there are rocks enough here for us, stone-eaters, even if we must share them with the Dwarves from the Ered Luin. So, all in all, my lord, I think the lands are quite suitable for all our needs, thus adequate!” he ended vehemently, grabbing his goblet before Círdan thought of placing it out of his reach and drinking a long draught defiantly.

“I believe that your Atar had an interesting story about the Onodrim from the time of the Great March, Ingil,“ Finarfin said valiantly, plunging into the embarrassed silence and clinging to his last hope, as the Vanyarin heir smiled gracefully and started one of his endless tales.

“By your leave, my lord,” Ereinion interrupted in a hoarse voice, as the servants brought dessert. “There is another family member that I must see tonight,” he added.

Círdan would have sworn that Finarfin barely had time to grant permission when the young king of the exiles stood up, nodded to the assembled party and exited the tent with as much dignity as he could muster, followed by the astonished looks of his table companions.

“Another family…” Ingil wondered aloud, stopping in the midst of his tale, and then, “of course, Celebrimbor!” as understanding dawned upon him. “You could have brought him to dinner with you, Niece,” he said merrily to Galadriel in unexpected retaliation, causing all heads to turn from one to another and more than one jaw to fall open.

Círdan poured himself a generous dose and leaned back quite contentedly, savouring the sparkling wine and enjoying the subsequent mayhem.

***

“I cannot believe that you spoke with that son of… Fëanor!”

The Wood-elves standing guard that night before the lord and lady’s tent moved their lips silently and in unison, mouthing the answer in advance, and smiling in amusement as it came a breath after, as expected.

“Grandson,” the lady’s voice sounded slightly more exasperated than the ten previous times, although they weren’t really all that sure, since the rustling leaves had muffled their voices twice.

“Whatever!” Lord Celeborn sounded exasperated. The Wood-elves outside his tent could only sympathize with him. “I don’t care, he’s one of those cursed…”

“Kinslayers”, she ended for him. The guards eyed each other with suspicion; the lady seemed to have joined in their game. “Can we move forward, my lord? He’s my half-cousin’s son, he didn’t swear that oath, nor took part on any of the kinslayings, and he rejected his father’s deeds in Nargothrond and parted from him. Now, how was your conversation with my atar?”

The guards looked at each other and nodded slightly in agreement, taking a silent step backwards, so as not to miss a word.

“… And he tried to bribe me…” the lord was saying. “He offered me a lordship in Eressëa, it seems that your maternal grandfather knows the island very well…And you? What happened with Ingil? You didn’t look like the best of friends tonight.”

Much to the guards' amazement, the lady snorted. It was a pity, they thought, for nobody would ever believe them.

“He tried to bribe me, too, said that my Ammë would be distraught not to see any of her children coming back... “

“He said that to me, too” the lord was saying. “And that almost broke my heart. What happened, then?”

“Well, Celebrimbor appeared,“

“I can’t believe that you spoke with…”

“Yes, yes, we already covered that, my lord. I walked with him and asked him about his plans. He said he intended to remain in Middle-earth, and that he wanted to build up a city worth of his talents, and that he was hopelessly in love with me, not that I did not know, of course...”

Thankfully, Lord Celeborn choked at the same time as his guards outside, and if the lady heard anything, she acted not upon it.

“How dares he!” the lord was raging, and most justly, in his guards’ opinion.

“I have always found fit flattering,” she said in a mellow tone. “Anyway, I would never dare invite him to dinner, my atar would have had a fit...”

“Well, he almost did, anyway, perhaps it would have been more merciful that way…I pitied him…”

“Oh, did you? So he managed to charm you in the end? “

“Well, yes, he seemed so sorrowful that I pitied him, even after he asked me whether we would stay here and pledge our faith to Ereinion, can you believe that?”

The guards looked at each other and shook their heads. The High King of the Noldor must have been completely out of his wits.

“And?”

For Elves who had never seen the Grinding Ice, the two guards before Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel’s tent were quite good at recognizing it. They looked at each other in apprehension.

“And? How and? How he ever thought that we could…”

Surprised by their lord’s cluelessness, the guards lowered their heads in defeat, bracing for the worst.

“We will, of course.”

“You are not speaking seriously. You mean not to bow in front of that child and pledge your loyalty to him…”

“He’s my rightful king.”

“He's an infant! What! Didn’t you see him today? Fighting with Oropher in front of a cheering crowd, picking on that peredhel and railing shamelessly at his king like a spoiled brat at the dinner table?”

“Oropher cheated.”

The guards were eyeing each other nervously. It was unspoken agreement that, should the discussion reach dangerous levels, the farthest the safest, and they were now considering their options.

“He’s a spoiled brat.”

“Oh, yes he is, wasn’t he endearing? He’s truly charming, isn’t he? My lord, he is still a child, poor thing…”

“If that’s what moves you, then we could try and get one of our own, one we shouldn’t have to bow to…”

“If you insist…”

Fire, on the other side, these elves had seen often enough. They exchanged anxious glances as the voices became muffled and the sounds more intense, and undeniably non-conversational.

“Ah, my lady,” the Lord’s voice had lost its usual steadiness, and he definitely was gasping. “ I… I don’t… think… that’s… ”

“I can stop right now, if you so command, my lord”, her voice came muffled, as if her face were pressed against…something? The guards were close to panic and hurried away as one, as their lord’s answer was lost in the night’s breeze.

**TBC**


	5. A Busy Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everybody gets up before Arien does - and nothing good can come from that- and Ingil Ingwion comes to a decision.

Erestor looked up and started counting to ten. At nine, the flap of his tent flew open and the peredhel came in, his half-smile hardly visible in the dim daybreak light.

“Morning Erestor, what do we have today?”

Elrond was an early riser and that was something Círdan's chief counsellor prized in an elf, together with a feel for organization, a deep respect for schedules and obligations, a love for knowledge and a neat handwriting. Elrond's wasn't yet as neat as it would be desirable in an elf of such noble descent, but Erestor was taking care of it. Every morning before Arien rose, Elrond was at Erestor's tent to check on the day's schedule and write it down, a good practice that was helping him polish his already more than decent tengwar.

“It depends,” he answered in his caustic manner, “another chance for your lord to show his ability to mess things up, or a succesful meeting with the Lord of the Dwarves of the Ered Luin…what do you think?”

Since Elrond had assumed an unofficial position as the king's assistant, he and Erestor had discovered that working together increased the chances of Ereinion being found where he was supposed to be at the appointed time.

Not that he was an errant, irresponsible king, but he tended to allow himself to get entangled in matters of little importance, in Erestor’s opinion, and let important and, above all, _scheduled_ events pass. Team-working with Elrond had proved a successful way of keeping track of the busy and overenthusiastic king, and Erestor was more than grateful for that.

“The Dwarf-Lord?” Elrond asked, raising his brows and disguising an amused smile. “I believe that will be a great success! They are almost friends, although Ereinion may not remember it,” he joked, recalling the shameful incident of the previous day. “How was your dinner?” he added hurriedly, trying to disguise his mirth at the sight of Erestor’s well-known and justly feared frown.

“Interesting,” was the curt answer. “Now, he wants to meet with Ereinion and be reassured that incidents like yesterday's won't be repeated... He made it clear that he is the lord of the Dwarves of Belegost, and overlord of the dwarven cities in the Ered Luin and won't tolerate his people to be harassed by us. The business between Doriath and Nogrod was settled many years ago, he remarked, and after all they didn't take part in that fight. On the other hand, he reminded me _repeatedly_ that his father, and many of his people, died in the Nirnaeth while the Doriathrim remained safely tucked in their thousand caves…” he added with annoyance.

Elrond smiled tightly. Erestor could almost hear the peredhel’s thoughts. The wound was still open for the Doriathrim. The death of their king at the hands of the Naugrim and the kinslaying were two sides of the same tragedy, one that would never be forgiven or forgotten and that would stain the responsible par ties for as long as Arda endured -if one were to believe some of their more heated statements.

The fact that the Noldor had always shown certain sympathy for the Naugrim because of their shared love of smithery and stone-carving only aggravated the resentment the Doriathrim showed against both parties. That included the Peredhil as well. They were regarded with open mistrust by the Sindar, mostly due to their more than dubious upbringing, amongst other things they were definitely innocent of. Since Elros had chosen to be counted amongst the Secondborn, that wariness affected Elrond mostly -and it showed, much to Erestor’s dismay.

"How was _your_ dinner?” he asked with genuine interest.

“Ereinion left before desert and went in search of Celebrimbor.” Erestor believed in short, precise sentences, and had passed that love to Elrond.

“Spoiled brat,” he chuckled fondly. He smiled at Elrond’s surprised face. “Not that I blame him, anyway. He had been hoping that Celeborn would share information about the lands to the East with him so he could in turn impress King Finarfin…and I hear that it did not go as planned… Let's hope he'll overcome his wounded pride and behave reasonably. Lord Gundaghâl is eager to share his tales of the lands to the east, anyway…and I believe their help would be more than welcome in building the new city. I think it would be good if they met first thing this morning, before anything disturbs the king’s morning bliss…”

Seeing Elrond’s knowing smile Erestor knew the peredhel was not fooled by his sarcasm. He liked the king immensely and his grumpiness was his way of showing it, same as Círdan’s.

Erestor was an elf of Nandorin descent, one of those who had stood by Denethor in the first battle of Beleriand. He had then gone to Menegroth with few of the survivors, accepting Thingol's hospitality and had lived there for many a year as a happy scholar, until the stifling pressure of the invisible Girdle had become unbearable. He had then moved to the Havens and settled down there before the sun rose.

At Círdan’s prodding, he had survived the daunting task of overseeing the exiled young prince’s education almost unscathed, except for the vast knowledge of Noldorin language, lore and culture acquired during those years and a deep fondness for the youngster, whose neat handwriting, acceptable love of lore and innate sense of duty qualified him as a decent ruler in Erestor’s more than informed opinion.

He had a barbed tongue and a sharp mind. He had seen and learnt so much that he was seldom moved or worried and he rarely passed judgment upon anyone’s motivations. His cold sarcasm was tempered by his equanimity and sense of fairness. His non-judgemental approach and multi cultural experience made him one of the few people who felt comfortable around the Peredhil, and conversely Elrond felt comfortable around.

“I will take care of it. Breakfast in his tent, then?” the peredhel confirmed.

“Agreed. After that, I know that King Finarfin is looking for a chance to speak privately with him. I’ll check with Finarfin and then let you know. Ereinion is supposedly taking care of the plans for the new settlement, but, honestly, I have no idea of what he’s been doing about it!”

“I’ll find out, and then let you know!” Elrond winked while bowing to his mentor. “But I better start moving, lest he finds something interesting to do before breakfast!”

“I’ll escort Lord Gundaghâl to Ereinion’s tent, then,” Erestor agreed, waving the peredhel goodbye and turning his attention to his breakfast with the same dedication he would show to the troop commander explaining the battle order.

***

Ereinion got up earlier than usual. He had not slept well. Last day’s events, including his late night conversation with Celebrimbor, had left him with a bitter taste. He had tossed and turned in a fitful rest plagued by dreams of roaring waves and the clamor of drowned lands, and had awoken before Arien rose; an unusual occurrence, granted, but not so rare as to cause his guard to jump on his feet and eye him with worry, he thought with wounded pride as he emerged from his tent.

“Lord Círdan said that a dwarf-lord would come to meet you in the morning, my lord,” the guard said nervously as he saw his lord ready to walk away.

Ereinion looked at the guard, then up to the sky, then back at the guard. ”Is it morning?” he asked playfully.

“No, not yet, my lord!” the guard nodded, fighting to keep his grin under control.

“I thought so,” Ereinion agreed placidly. ”Now, I’m going to the shipyards where the edain are building their fleet,” he added pleasantly. "I inform you, for I know that they’ll plague you with questions. Let them know, then, that I’ll be back by a decent morning hour in which the King would be ready to meet with anyone, by you leave?” And with the guard’s complicity he walked away at a brisk pace.

Had he been asked to, Ereinion would have defined himself as resilient.

He wasn’t wise as his grandfather or valiant as his father, but he was an optimistic, stubborn and spirited elf. He faced every new day with the same positive attitude, hoping –and striving- for the best. He usually took time to run over the list of pending matters as he had a hurried breakfast and then readied for any other thing that might go wrong and require his attention as the day progressed. He felt deep satisfaction in getting things done, and not even Erestor’s recriminations about unfulfilled schedules could dampen his optimism and satisfaction when problems had been solved, scheduled or otherwise.

So he was full of enthusiasm that morning -before dawn!- as he crossed the half-asleep camp towards the shipyards, intent on learning about how the Edain were obtaining the wood for their shipbuilding. He had not forgotten the young Wood-elf and her Sindarin friends’ worries and he expected to gather some information before meeting them. He still owed them a debt of gratitude, after all. He found Elros’ steward, an old campaigner who was now in charge of the shipyards, and had breakfast with him while learning about their progress.

“Tell Elros to meet me in my tent, Arandur. I think we can make some arrangements to improve the wood supply while avoiding damage to the forest…” He greeted the steward goodbye and walked back, taking the path along the shoreline instead of crossing back through the camp.

In the few days he had been there, Ereinion had not been able to take a calm tour of the encampment. He had not had the chance to admire the magnificent ships of Olwë’s people either, so he decided that he would take advantage of his early beginning to go and have a close look at those works of art that had come straight from the West.

Since the harbour was deep there, most of the ships were moored upon the wooden pier. He relished the feeling of walking among their supple wooden frames while secretly hoping to be treated to the priceless sight of Olvárin climbing his ship’s mast for exercise. He stood there, admiring the graceful sight of the tall structures with their long wooden fingers and their glistening canvas neatly rolled, waving lazily in the morning breeze.

“Wonderful, aren’t they?”

Ereinion nodded to a dark-haired and grey-eyed elf who was also admiring the tall ships. Soon, they were engaged in friendly conversation about the pecularities of those magnificent ships.

***

Elrond walked to Ereinion’s tent at a brisky pace, hoping to wake him up with time enough to gather his wits before meeting with the Dwarf-lord. The king was, after all, the opposite of a morning person - _just like Elros_ , he sighed. Elrond, on the other side, always got up before Arien did. He relished the freedom of the first hours of the day, when everything was about to stir. Elros, though, preferred to join in his men’s revelries each night.

Elros loved to be loved, and he knew how to manage it. He had soon come to terms with their situation quickly and had found a way to cope with it while Elrond reeled with the after effects of the attack in Sirion. Elros had soon discovered that being stubborn and boisterous and defiant and cheeky was the way to secure Maedhros’ tolerance and attention, and had turned it into an art -ensuring at the same time their well-being at the fëanorian camp.

He had nodded politely when they had met their lost kin, namely Ereinion, Celeborn and Galadriel, and had shrugged blithely when learning that their mother was alive and that their father wore a Silmaril upon his brow and sailed the skies. He had chosen mortality with sure foot and an unconcerned smile, while Elrond only knew that he had chosen the life of the Eldar for he needed the time it granted.

He needed time to sort out his feelings and let some wounds heal. He needed time to come to terms with whom and what he was. He needed time to get used to his place in Arda, time to forgive his mother and father -and his foster parents- for leaving them, and Ereinion and Círdan for not looking for them, and Celeborn, who insisted that they were kin and yet looked at them from a distance, seeing them as the fëanorians that most of the camp still considered them to be…

Not them, he corrected himself grimly time and again, for Elros had found an easy way to avoid that particular disturbance; he was king of the Edain, and that put any other consideration to rest.

During the war Elros had spent most of the time commanding edain patrols in charge of evacuation of edain settlements, and that had made it easier for him to choose their side. Elrond had stayed behind with the high command instead, joining the king’s closest circle of advisors as soon as Maedhros and Maglor learnt that Ereinion had set forth with his mixed army and against Finarfin's orders.

Often Elrond wondered whether their choices would have been different, had he and Elros switched places during the war.

He wasn’t all that sure. He needed the time, after all.

He needed to dwell upon details, ponder all options, see all points of view, and the problems he faced weren’t simple… All in all, he had had no other choice left, he concluded, approaching the king’s tent as he came to the same conclusion to the same debate he had been holding with himself for some months now, since they had made up their different choices. It still hurt, but that was a familiar feeling, after all.

“Good morning, Lord Elrond, the King is not in.”

Elrond stopped mid-step, sure that he had misheard.

“I beg your pardon?” He even looked up briefly, fearing he had daydreamed for longer than he suspected. Arien was hardly showing her first rays; those were still the hours Ereinion dubbed as _“unhealthy for an Elf to be found up and around.”_

“The king left early this morning, my lord,” the guard reported, struggling to keep a straight face. “He said he had business in the edain’s shipyards, and that he would be back…before his meeting,” he added after a short hesitation, which was all Elrond needed to know that those hadn’t been _exactly_ the king’s words. He groaned. Once again, Ereinion had given him the slip. What business could he have in the shipyards, Elrond could not fathom for the life of him.

“Have the king’s squire send word to Erestor as soon as he shows up,” he said sternly, enjoying the way the guard stood to attention and bowed respectfully. With an sufferng sigh he picked the shortest way to the shipyards across the camp.

“The king was here earlier, Elrond, and he made a lot of questions about timber, but it’s been some time since he left,” Arandur informed him. “Your brother has just arrived, if you would see him?”

“What’s _he_ doing here?” Elrond asked softly, nodding towards where Oropher waited, his impeccable, ever-present frown shinning brightly in the morning light.

“No idea,” the steward shrugged. “Says he wants to talk to Elros, something about timber, as well… angry fellow, isn’t he?” He couldn’t know, but surely Círdan would have withdrawn his kind support had he heard Elros’ steward blithely refer to the carefully treated wooden planks that would make up their ships’ frames as _timber_.

“Quite,” Elrond agreed, a wicked idea forming in his mind. ”Tell my brother that I wait in his antechamber, and tell Lord Oropher that he can wait in there, too,” he said graciously. He needed say no more, he knew from Arandur’s smug grin as he went into what passed for Elros’ office. His brother came out shortly, with his usual wide grin plastered on his face.

“Morning, brother! Oropher, my somewhat distant kinsman, what a pleasure!”

Elrond had the pleasure to see Oropher’s frown go even deeper when he bowed slightly to Elros’ boisterous and almost-too-familiar greeting. The Peredhil found it amusing to provoke mixed feelings among their half-kin. For the Doriathrim, above all, it was a delicate matter whether to fully acknowledge -or ignore- those sons of Elwing. The fact that they had been fostered by the kinslayers added a painful dilemma to the whole matter of their Noldorin descent. Brazen and disrespectful as both had grown up, the Peredhil loved to press the issue at the less auspicious moments.

“There’s a matter of the greatest importance and utmost secrecy that I must discuss with you, my brother,” Elrond said in earnest, following Elros into his private office and closing the door behind them, making sure that Oropher’s curiosity had been piqued. Gesturing at his brother, he spoke in a voice too loud for the small office.

“Ereinion is to meet today with the Dwarf-lord. I’ve been told that he has maps of the lands to the East that include the location of secret elven realms hidden in the forests of which Celeborn has never heard of!”

“Secret elven realms? My brother! You could rule your own kingdom there! Surely they are those who forsook the March! They would most assuredly welcome the great-grandson of Elwë!”

Elros might be not the smartest, but he certainly wasn’t the slowest of the two peredhil. Elrond grinned madly as he gave a touch of secrecy to his loud voice.

“The Dwarf will disclose those maps to Ereinion this morning, when they meet in the king’s tent, and I am told that his only condition is that he must approve of whom the king designs to be his Herald to the East!”

“Then you got it, Elrond! No Sinda would ever be appointed or accepted, and no one is more suitable and closer to the king than you! I’m glad for you, my brother!”

A soft knock, followed by the dark head of Arandur peering inside interrupted their conversation.

”Cut that, Peredhil, he must be sitting on the king’s cot by now, reclaming the privilege to those imaginary realms on behalf of the Doriathrim!” he said with mock disapproval at their hysterical laughter.

“Have a good morning, Elros, and thanks for your co-operation! I still have to find Ereinion!” Elrond bowed to his brother, trying to contain his laughter, a mischievous smile upon his usually serious face.

“I must meet him too, something about the timber, I’ve been told, but first I would like to do something about those poor, bored Teleri mariners… care to join me?” Elros asked in mock seriousness.

Elrond knew that look only too well. “I would be glad to be of assistance, but I fear my morning is too busy. Let me know how it goes, will you?”

***

“Have you seen my guards?”

Lord Celeborn could have sworn there had been two guards posted in front of their tent last night. But then, he wasn’t completely sure, what with all the angry words they had been exchanging on their way back to camp after that disastrous dinner… Angry words that had turned into heated discussion inside the tent… yes, heated was the word to describe it, the lord thought with a silly grin adorning his fair face, lost in contemplation of last night’s activities.

A discreet cough brought him back to reality and to the face of an elf that fought bravely to disguise his amusement.

“I am afraid I have not, my lord Celeborn, but I can go in search of them, if you want…”

Celeborn blushed furiously and shook his head. “There is no such need,” he said, pretending not to see the elf’s surreptitious grin. “Just make sure they are on their position when the lady awakes and for the rest of the day,” he said in his most regal voice.

“As you command, my lord,” the elf bowed. Pride satisfied, Celeborn hurried along the path that led to the harbour.

He walked lightly, feeling as if Arda had been renewed, rejoicing in every tree and bird that met his way, humming contentedly, the nonsense of last night’s dinner completely wiped away by the memories of their passionate encounter, an encounter he had won, of course, he thought smugly, as he considered his victory; they had postponed a decision regarding conceiving a child and swearing their allegiance to Ereinion.

Why those two things had been part of the same discussion was now a mystery to him; he only knew he had won. _“Yes, my lord, you moaned and begged as a winner indeed,”_ his wife’s wicked, throaty voice whispered in his mind, sending shivers down his spine at the simple memory.

He hastened down the path, turning his attention to the business before him, one -he suddenly remembered with apprehension- he had agreed to undertake under his wife’s gentle persuasion.

As Arien began to show her beautiful face in the east, Celeborn was escorted to Olvárin’s ship, where he was expected for breakfast.

“...And no matter what Círdan claims, nothing can surpass the beauty of their canvas, the softness and resistance of their rigging, the smooth lines of our vessels, their draught, the delicate curve of their reinforced hulls, their powerful bowsprits, their beautiful brightwork and their advantageous freeboard, the graceful way they cut the wind at full sail...Our fleet is definitely the finest example…”

Celeborn’s mind was drifting across a different sea, bored to tears by Olvárin’s obsession while traitorously inspired to attempt a nautical description of his beloved wife, when a familiar voice coming from the pier and filtering through the open porthole interrupted his musings.

“They are beautiful beyond measure,” the voice praised, “works of art indeed, and I’m glad I was able to see them at such close distance, although I bet Lord Círdan would fight your claim about these being the most perfect ships ever… I am no mariner myself, but you see, he is quite proud of _Vingilote.”_

Olvárin’s face softened at that, as another voice answered down in the pier, his awe plain, too, at the mention of Eärendil’s ship. “You have seen Vingilote!”

Celeborn looked at Olvárin. “That’s Ereinion, if I’m not mistaken. You could invite him aboard, too...I’m sure he’ll appreciate a closer…”

All of a sudden Celeborn was running after Olwë’s son as he rushed upstairs and shoved himself on board, walking haughtily to the stern and leaning forth to cast his blazing glare upon the unsuspecting onlookers.

“Are you Ereinion son of Fingon?” he demanded in a low, rumbling voice that rang with the depth of the Horns of Ulmo and echoed around the harbour.

“Yes, I am.” Celeborn heard the apprehension in the king’s clear voice before spying his strained face as he looked up from the pier, a questioning look in his eyes.

“I am Olvárin son of Olwë and I warn you, do not ever dare lay your bloodied hands upon my fair ships, you son of an accursed kinslayer, or I’ll personally put an end to your doomed line!” the prince of the Teleri roared with deeply felt hatred.

Celeborn hardly had the time to register Ereinion’s shocked expression, sorrow and humiliation showing in his grey eyes as he bowed his head in silent defeat and walked away briskly, barely stopping to send a respectful nod to Finarfin and Galadriel, who were approaching the ship.

Any thought of the dejected king vanished from Celeborn’s mind, though, as fear of what welcome the temperamental Telerin prince might have in store for his wife took over.

***

Ingil Ingwion shifted uncomfortably on his rear end, sitting cross-legged upon a rock, under cover of an overgrown bower, facing the Belegaer and overseeing the busy harbour.

His morning routine wasn’t going as planned and his concentration was growing thinner every passing hour. To make matters worse, those bothersome seabirds insisted on landing upon his head, disturbing his meditation with their vexing shrills and undoubtedly obscene conversations.

The Vanyarin heir started every morning spending time in close connection with Arda.

It had been so since his early childhood, when the Vanyar learned to attune themselves to Manwë’s presence in the smallest part of the King’s realm. He could do that as easily as he breathed. After all those millennia, he knew the mind of the tiniest pebble and grain of sand in Aman, and could recognize the voice of every kelvar or olvar that had already been there when he had been born.

But something was different here. The clamour of too many voices confused and disturbed him. The fastest pace of growth and change -death, as well as birth- resulted in a strange, intoxicating turmoil, engaging as well as terrifying to one who had never before experienced it.

That had cost them lives, he thought with a shiver.

Death.

Even the word was strange to him, he secretly savoured it with the delight of forbidden things. Most Vanyarin casualties had happened thus, during the day’s meditation, as warriors tried to overcome their perplexity before that mighty racket that could only come from Manwë and his siblings’ doing, and yet was as foreign to their ears as the swiftly passing lives of their Edain allies.

_My warriors!_

He shook his head, guilt overcoming him. Every morning he recited their names and pictured their faces in his mind, bemoaning in a slow, silent lament the twenty-seven noble warriors and friends who had shed their blood in that foreign land.

But for some time, now, he was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate in that task as other voices and faces, closer and livelier, poked insistently at his conscience, pulsing in his blood, commanding attention and not mere contemplation.

He sighed tiredly, feeling something akin to exasperation, as he focused his awareness in the comings and goings in the harbour while remembering last night’s events.

Much as he tried to, he could not understand the restlessness and vehemence of cousin Indis’ brood. Their poking and verbal fighting had almost got the best of him last night. For a time he had even considered stealing one of the ships and sailing away to the Blessed Realm. And then, much to his dismay, he had found out that he had enjoyed immensely the exhilaration that came from reacting to the unexpected, instead of simply acting in a long-known and carefully mastered pattern. He had felt alive, and relished the feeling.

 _Stop it!_ his logical mind commanded. With a flex of his well-muscled will he refocused his consciousness towards the deepest foundations of his wisdom, the place where the Vanyarin people dived to merge with the very soul of Arda as they almost glimpsed the trembling echo of the sacred music, the safe haven of their light and peace, almost there…

_Now, this is the third time he climbs his mast, something must be disturbing Olvárin… There comes Celeborn…there goes Ereinion ... look, he’s back, stood at the pier… what, the peredhel goes now to the shipyards, had he gone by the shoreline he would have met the king… Finarfin and Galadriel, yes, Celeborn arrived a quarter tide ago or so…they are surely having breakfast with Olvárin…_

_Enough!_ He jumped on his feet, unable to concetrate and utterly angered at his own traitorous mind and almost knocked himself senseless as he forcefully hit a branch. He blinked in incomprehension, staring at the tiny drops of blood on his fingers and shook his head with dismay. Surely this was not happening! The High Prince of the Vanyar was hitting his head against a tree like a clumsy edain!

“Oh, Atar!” he moaned in despair, “I am poisoned by this marred Arda! Forgive me!” He stood there, panting heavily, frightened by his own loss of control, knowing what he had to do but too shocked to take a step in any direction.

The echo of angry voices in the harbour shook him from his moment of contemplation and, breathing in with decision, he started with purposeful strides towards the haven, his mind made lt last.

**TBC**


	6. The Council of Ereinion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which someone gets bored, someone gets angry, someone behaves as a child, plans are made, suggestions too, Oropher blushes, Ereinion’s tent becomes too small for such crowds and Ingil Ingwion shocks the audience.

“…And no less than a thousand torches give light to the most magnificent halls you could ever dream of! Nothing of the likes was ever carved, my friend. Why, not even the Thousand Caves of the famed Sindarin king could compare to the beauty of Khazad-Dum!” Lord Gundaghâl had started talking the moment a shaken Ereinion entered his own tent and had not stopped through breakfast.

Erestor’s warning frown had reminded him that listening politely and making relevant questions was expected from him. The Dwarf-lord wanted to start moving his people to the East and wanted to know about the safety of those lands.

“It’s been a generation since any of us made the road, we know not for sure what we might find. There used to be scattered Edain hamlets and Elvish strongholds and, since you are their king, you must be able to grant us some kind of safe-conduct…”

 _Another one who thinks I know all about the lands to the east,_ the irked king thought. _I might as well make a public statement._ His frown, though, had an unexpected effect.

"Of course," the dwarf added hurriedly, "there are other things to take into account, there’s always been trade between your people and mine, and surely the mighty city of Khazad-Dûm might be interested in setting up trade agreements with a powerful Elven king…” he suggested with a knowing smile.

 _Is Finarfin remaining?_ Ereinion wondered, _for I cannot see another powerful Elven king in the vicinity…_ His foul mood must have been showing, judgning by Erestor’s glances. The Dwarf made a desperate last attempt.

“We are ancient friends and allies, after all." He seemed to be reaching the end of his rope, seeing as the king looked apparently unimpressed by his generous offers. “I met your father, lad, when I was a dwarfling, and what a brave and courteous elf he was… My father once took me in a trip to the Havens, where your father was busy building a tower for Círdan with Felagund…”

"As far as I understand," Ereinion interrupted him, his gloominess dispelled at hearing the Dwarf-lord “dwarfling” himself, "you need our help to ensure the safety of your people as they travel east. In exchange for that help, you would help establishing trade agreements between Hadhodrond and us…to the benefit of all involved, of course." Ereinion saw a ghostly smirk of approval in Erestor’s impassive face and kept on sternly. "You would, as well, share your maps and routes with us, of course, so we can get an accurate idea of what lands and lordships you would be traversing..."

The Dwarf-lord let escape a deep sigh of relief. "Yes, in other words, but yes, that’s what I meant. Of course, first we should discuss trade agreements, and how we shall reward your help…"

“I wouldn’t dwell upon that right now, my lord,” Ereinion offered graciously, waving his hand in dismissal in a poor imitation of a gesture he had seen Finarfin make with striking gracefulness and which had looked pretty easy when performed by the High King. “We are friends and allies and that should serve for now. I am more interested presently in discussing your people’s safety,” he added regally.

His efforts were rewarded by a deep bow from the dwarf. “You may not be all that good with a quarterstaff, but you are a noble king, wise beyond your years,” the Dwarf-lord said seriously, climbing back to his chair with some effort.

“My lord, you cannot enter, the king is busy presently…” The warning voice of the guard sneaked in while the king tried to decide whether to feel insulted by the Dwarf’s remark about his fighting abilities, or flattered by his praise.

“And I told you that I must enter,” a well-known growl replied. Ereinion sighed and rolled his eyes.

“I’ll see what is going on, my lord,” Erestor offered, rising from his chair. He returned with a surprisingly calm Oropher in tow.

“Well, good morning, Lord Oropher,” the king said evenly. “Such an early riser! I believe you already know Lord Gundaghâl,“ he added, trying to suppress an amused grin at the visible efforts Oropher was making to keep a civil façade.

“We met, yes,” the Sinda answered tightly. Now that he had made it into the tent, he seemed a bit uncertain about how to proceed.

“Now, can you tell us why did you feel the urgent need to interrupt my council, Lord Oropher?” Ereinion asked with exaggerate politeness.

“Why, to offer his apologies, of course…” Erestor chimed in happily from behind Oropher’s back.

“Apologies for my behaviour yesterday, Lord Gundaghâl,” Oropher grunted after a brief struggle, casting a murderous glance towards Círdan’s counsellor.

“... To the King, am I right, Lord Oropher?” Erestor’s tone brooked no argument, as Lord Gundaghâl accepted Oropher’s apologies with a stern nod. Ereinion leaned back on his chair, an expectant look upon his face.

“I…”

The Dwarf-lord smiled invitingly, Erestor nudged the Sinda softly and Ereinion had the distinct feeling that someone was courting death there.

“I…apologize for beating you in front of Círdan and your king, Lord Ereinion.”

Long years spent pretending that everything was fine while he grew up as a lonesome Noldo among Teleri had taught Ereinion to maintain a good grip on his emotions, so he kept his face perfectly still and took no note of the challenge. He tried instead Finarfin’s lazy waving yet again, with the same unsatisfactory results. “It is all right,” he said, “I shouldn’t have provoked you on the first place, all is forgotten now, Lord Oropher….”

“Glad to hear that,” the Sindarin lord answered curtly, sitting uninvited on Erestor’s empty chair. “Please, do not let me interrupt you!" he added with exasperating aplomb. “I already know about those maps…”

“Well…I do not think you can be of any use to Lord Gundaghâl, Lord Oropher,” Erestor said pointedly, while he searched around for another chair, “and this is a council you have not been invited to, so I suggest…”

“Damn! You wretched… Hold them, will you?“

Elrond’s unrestrained language filtering through the canvas of the king’s tent elicited a grin from Ereinion’s face as his guests, and uninvited visitor, exchanged amazed glances.

“We have an appointment!”

“He told us to come!”

“This is very important!”

“Lord Elrond, the King is presently…”

“You tell them!” Elrond sounded at the limit of his endurance. Even before Erestor could once again reach the entrance, Elrond’s dark head peered in.

“Is something the matter, Elrond? Good morning to you, by the way!” Ereinion greeted him in a cheerful tone of voice that suggested to those in the game that the king had given up with the morning schedule and was ready to enjoy whatever chaos was looming outside his tent. Elrond clutched the flap firmly in his hands and seemed to be fighting to keep his place there.

“Good morning, my lord, Lord Gundaghâl, Erestor, ” his voice sounded strained as he rocked back and forth in a strange way. “My lord, there are three youngsters here... claiming that you…”

Ereinion nodded in understanding. “I see…Well, since we could consider that our meeting has already been ruined, Lord Gundaghâl, I suppose you won’t object if I take care of another matter…”

“Go on, lad,” the Dwarf-lord answered, shaking his hand with that perfectly dismissive wave, Ereinion noticed grudgingly, “take your time,” he added, picking at Erestor’s plate, “you don’t mind, do you? Aren’t you hungry?”

“Send them in, Elrond, please…” Ereinion took care not to look at Erestor’s face, and watched in amusement as Elrond popped in gracelessly, propelled by what turned out to be the Silvan elleth and her cocky Sindarin friends as they rushed in in a chattering, bickering turmoil that reminded Ereinion of their first meeting in the woods of Ossiriand.

“You told us to come this morning…”

“…But he wouldn’t let us in... and we have all the information...”

“And they _must_ stop _immediately_ cutting trees,” the cockiest of the three demanded in a haughty voice. Ereinion just sat back and waited for the explosion to happen.

None of the three youngsters had been cautious enough to assess their surroundings before speaking, and that proved a tactical mistake.

“What on Arda are you three doing here, Thranduil?”

Ereinion was grateful that this time Oropher’s roar was not directed at him. The proud youngster seemed to shrink as he focused his eyes on the guest sitting at the farthest corner of the king’s table.

The boy’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly for a moment and he finally gasped, “I…Adar, I…can explain…” in a thin voice, blushing furiously and taking a step back, and then another, as Oropher advanced upon him.

W _hy! They even have the same frown. How did I not notice before?”_ Ereinion thought in amusement, looking from father to son.“A moment, if you please, Lord Oropher,“ he demanded in a serene voice. He suddenly understood the youth’s reaction as Oropher turned to glare at him. He stood his ground, though, but raised his hands as a precaution. “They worry that the Edain are cutting too many trees and I told them to come to see me today with all the information they could gather...”

“First you steal my most trusted friend and make him disappear and now you’re using my child and his friends to spy on the Edain! How dare you…” Oropher was ready to explode, having changed target without spending his rage.

 _Trust Oropher to find a reason to blame me for the making of the sun and the moon,_ Ereinion thought in exasperation.. “I already told you that Maentêw is away with the patrols. And the children warned me about the problem and I only requested to be fully briefed before making a decision,” he said patiently. “As for yourself, you are welcome to leave, since your presence is not required anymore, my lord,” he added sternly.

“I’ll stay,” Oropher pronounced abruptly, “lest you end up sending my children in some suicidal mission!”

On the other hand, Ereinion just remembered how fiercely protective Oropher felt about the three younglings, so he bit his lip and simply nodded and ignored the Sinda’s last remark. “As you like; Elrond, please, make room for these young lords and lady and let’s see what they bring!”

Soon they were all engaged around the table, plates and jars aside, studying the rough map of the place where the Edain were building their ships and the forest area they were despoiling at an enthusiastic pace.

“They’ve been cutting trees from the same area,” Thranduil complained bitterly, “since the very beginning. They are clumsy, ignorant creatures, and they must stop that!” he insisted.

Ereinion grimaced.

“I bet you used many wooden tools and implements wherever it was that you lived before coming here… didn’t you?” Elrond put in softly.

"Of course!” the young elf answered haughtily. A glare from Ereinion made the trick, though. “My lord,” he added reluctantly. “But we took care to gather only what the forest would yield!” He was incensed again, anger radiating from his thin frame almost visibly. Elrond held up a hand, fighting to contain his laughter.

“Easy, young one! I’m sure that you took care…because somebody took the time to teach you... am I right?” The rebellious one held his gaze for a moment while his friends nodded.

“So, would you volunteer to teach the Edain how to clear the forest in a harmless way? Would the three of you volunteer to help them scout for different places where they could obtain their timber?” Elrond added. Ereinion grimaced again and watched Erestor hide his face in his palm at the word.

 _“He should know better than to call it timber,”_ Ereinion muttered to Círdan’s chief counsellor.

“I warn you, peredhel, you will not use my children to...”

“We are ready to try, Adar!” Thranduil cut in, while his two friends nodded vigorously. “If only to show…”

“You wouldn’t find your own finger even if it were stuck in your own eye, master mason,” a haughty voice of stunning beauty resounded outside the tent. “Move aside, guard, my cousin awaits me…”

Ereinion flashed a weak smile towards his visitors as the flap flew open with a flourish and Celebrimbor Curufinwion entered the tent with an undisguised air of nobility, elegantly clad in black. “I must complain, my lord king,” he said, bowing deeply. “What ill have I caused you that you must punish me with such undeserved harshness, forcing me to bear with these artisans, whose craft and knowledge does not remotely match even my earliest attempts at city building...”

“Lord Gundaghâl,” Ereinion said, ignoring his cousin’s haughty words, “meet Lord Celebrimbor Curufinwion, son of my father’s half-cousin. Celebrimbor, this is Lord Gundaghâl, son of Azaghâl...”

As dwarf and Noldorin smith bowed respectfully, apparently aware of each other’s renown, Ereinion confronted a bunch of outraged Teleri shipwrights and architects bumping into one another in their eagerness to enter the already crowded tent and present their complaints to the young king, who had decided to include Celebrimbor in the team charged with the design of the new city without consulting them.

While Ereinion looked around in mounting panic, Erestor shook his head and sighed. “I will find another table. Elrond, you better keep an eye on Oropher, lest he attempts to cut Celebrimbor’s throat…”

“But he wasn’t involved...”

“Elrond…”

A quick look at Oropher’s clouded face was enough for Elrond to take the hint. He grabbed the Sindarin lord’s arm and led him to the corner of the table where Thranduil and his two friends studied their maps intently.

“Now, Lord Oropher, would you say that the trees around this area here are more suitable for the shipbuilding?” Ereinion heard Elrond say in his most respectful manner. He briefly prayed it would be enough to appease the cranky Sinda, then his attention was drawn to the architects’ plight.

“He is impossibly haughty, my lord,” one of Círdan’s shipwrights was complaining about Celebrimbor. “Why would he insist on working with us...”

“Maybe because it is the king who insisted?” Ereinion suggested, mildly amused by their uneasiness.

“I doubt it,” the shipwright shook his head distractedly as his companions unfolded the designs upon the unsteady table Ereinion used as night stand and which Erestor had unceremoniously put to less kingly uses. “You are a good lad, you wouldn’t do that to us, would you?” the shipwright added with sudden concern.

A couple of chests containing Ereinion’s belongings were dragged, too, from the more private area in his tent, and soon the guards outside were busy looking for tree stumps, trunks or chairs to accommodate the king’s growing council.

“We insist that this is the most suitable area, my lord,” one of the architects claimed, pointing at the same plans Ereinion had rejected the day before.

“And, my lord, you may be forgetting that the Teleri have always lived by the sea and that our ships are our most precious belongings!” another added.

“How could I forget? I grew up in Eglarest, after all…”

“But yet…”

“I cannot understand why you insist on cramming shipyards and warehouses together with houses and orchards and piers and…”

“Because that’s how they do it in their ships, cousin, cramming things one upon another, up to the topmast… that may work for their vessels,” Celebrimbor chimed in from the other side of the table, where he was conversing with the dwarf-lord, “but ask them not to build something bigger than that for they will get lost, too much open space for them!”

“That’s not true!” one of the architects retorted heatedly, and Ereinion had to agree. They had settled down in Balar, and helped build the refuge in the mouths of Sirion and…

“This is unworthy of a kingdom of Firstborn,” Celebrimbor sentenced. The Telerin architects seethed with undisguised rage.

“Explain yourself, cousin, but try to do it in a courteous manner, if you remember how …”

“Uh, with all that empty space here, and the plateau down there… you could come up with something truly splendid!” The dwarf had now joined in the conversation, leaning forth precariously to get a better glimpse of the maps. Ereinion rolled his eyes.

“Are you trying to build up your capital city here?” Oropher’s mocking voice chimed in. He had apparently forgotten about the forest to contribute with his priceless advice. Ereinion breathed in deeply.

“I intend to build a place in which everybody can settle in, a place whence elves can sail West whenever they want to, a place where our people can be safe and protected, and thrive in trade and forging and growing and hunting, as well as fishing and sailing the waves,” he explained in a serious voice. “This is not Balar, my friends, we are not refugees any longer,” he continued, his voice more intense as he spoke, his grey eyes blazing in his animated face. “We are settling down here for the long run, as close to our drowned homeland as we shall ever be, and for as long as we draw breath or the land stands; and it is the King’s will that all the elves lingering in Middle- earth may find a safe haven here, should they need it. See that it is done, my lords” he added sternly, challenging Celebrimbor with a steady gaze.

“ _Start behaving as a king,_ ” the Fëanorian had reprimanded him the night before, during their less than friendly conversation. _”For Eru’s sake, Ereinion, look at you, start dressing as a king!_ ” he had added with languid scorn.

“If I may add something,” a well-known voice chimed in. “We used to live in two cities, back in the Havens.” Unnoticed, Círdan had entered the crowded tent and had been listening to the discussion with interest. “We have a splendid firth at our disposal, here, and two overseeing capes. As the king says, let us build a place where everybody feels at ease, be it Quendi or Edain or even Naugrim, should they grace us with their presence,” the Mariner added with a courteous bow that was received with a grateful nod by the Dwarf-lord.

“I suppose, then, that we should start considering Lord Celebrimbor’s designs...”

“I can offer some suggestions, too,” the booming voice of Lord Gundaghâl resounded in the tent. Celebrimbor bowed slightly towards Ereinion before overseeing the unfolding of his delicately drafted plans.

“Well-said, young one,” Erestor whispered in Ereinion’s ear. “Now see that they do not kill each other,” he added wickedly.

Ereinon shook his head and managed a dismayed smile. “How’s the board for forest protection progressing?” he asked, nodding towards the other table where the three youngsters seemed intent on their appointed task, working peacefully with Elrond now that Oropher had joined the architects’ front.

“Ossë’s beard!” another booming voice interrupted their conversation. “Is this Ereinion’s tent or the market place?

“Elros! The King we were awaiting!” Erestor said in a mellifluous voice. Knowing the danger in that tone, Ereinion turned his attention back to the architect’s table, leaving Elros to fend for himself.

The young king of the Edain looked a bit dishevelled and was panting heavily, but he carried himself with the same characteristic sprightliness that had earned him his men’s favour and many a disapproving frown from the Valinorean elves.

“Excuse me, Erestor, but it was the King who sent for me…” Ereinion chuckled and waited for the cutting remark, while half-listening to the architects’ debates.

“And it is the King’s counsellor who’s talking to you,” Erestor said sternly. “Be my friend, Elros, or face the consequences.” Something in the counsellor’s voice managed to sober up the Edain king almost immediately.

“Where is Ereinion?” he asked.

“Over there,” Erestor sighed, pointing at the assorted company around the smaller table, “discussing the layout of the new settlement...”

“I was told that he wanted to discuss something about the timber,” Elros said. As he threw himself between between Oropher and Celebrimbor to prevent their argument to become physical, Ereinion still could detect the amusement in the irrepresible peredhel’s voice, and vowed to take revenge at some point. "But I don’t think he’s in the mood now, so I better leave. I see that Oropher joined in, though. Greetings, Oropher, a shame we could not speak this morning!" Elros waved, visibly amused and looking positively smug.

You call those carefully and lovingly prepared trees _timber_ again,” a soft deep voice declared menacingly at Elros’ back, “and you better get ready to swim to wherever the Valar have decided to place you and your men, young one.“

At least, Círdan did not disappoint, Ereinion thought, feeling somewhat vindicated at seeing Elros suddenly stiffen his back to attention. It was short-lived, though.

“Círdan! Glad to see you! I thought you were busy in _my_ shipyards!” Elros greeted the shipwright happily, undaunted by the mariner’s stern words.

Growing up around Maedhros made elflings difficult to intimidate, Ereinion sighed, reading into Círdan’s thoughts, although, somehow, Erestor managed.

“Elrond, go help your lord; the King of the Edain and I will see to this matter...” Círdan grunted, dragging Elros to the table where Thranduil and his friends worked diligently. “Your men have been cutting too many trees, Elros, let’s see how we manage to redress that problem...”

“Oh, thanks Eru,” Ereinion whispered, relieved to see Elrond coming to his support. “They are all mad, I swear,” he added, pointing at the heated commission arguing about the stables and the green areas.

“They are working together, at least...” Elrond smiled.

“My lord!” The flap flew open once again and one of the guards stepped in. “His Royal Majesty, the High King of the Noldor, Lord…”

“Stop that, will you?” said Finarfin kindly, as he entered the crowded tent gracefully, bright and shinning as if a Silmaril had come to visit, and waving his hand lazily to the guard. “It is my nephew whom I came to meet, after all…”

 _Must he do that all the time?_ Ereinion grunted, watching the effortlessly waving hand in fascination. “My lord,” he said out loud, forcing an enthusiasm he was far from feeling, “please, do take a stump, I mean, do take a seat... my lady...”

Galadriel beamed by her father’s arm, casting smiles around her, hardly disguising her mirth. “Morning, nephew, such a lively council you have here!”

“I understand now why you were in such hurry this morning, Ereinion,” Finarfin added, nodding to the assembled architects. ”We were to suggest that you joined us for breakfast at Olvárin’s when we met at the quay, my thanks, Erestor,” Finarfin offered one of the seats to his daughter, missing Ereinion’s tight smile, “but I see now that you had other obligations… good, good, go on, I can wait...” he said, sitting at the table the three youngsters had been occupying until a moment before, when Erestor had unceremoniously suggested that they played around while the adults discussed matters of greater import.

Unnoticed, and a bit shaken in their pride, the three young elves took to exploring less crowded areas of the tent.

“If you but just give me a moment, my lord,” Ereinion offered hesitantly, as the discussions at the other table reached a dangerous level.

“You both are right!” Elrond was trying to calm down Oropher, “and this is by no means the last word on the matter!”

“And who are you, to be here making decisions, anyway?” one of the Teleri architects was reproaching Oropher, as the king stepped in.

“Come on, come on, let’s calm down...” Ereinion said distractedly, straining to identify the harsh voices that sounded outside.

“I speak on behalf of a large group of Silvan elves in this camp” Oropher was saying in his overbearing stance, “and I say that you pay no heed to our needs and preferences...”

“He may have a point there,” Celebrimbor was saying in a conciliatory tone, doubling over his map, “that could be redressed with little loss…”

“Do not restrain me! Do not touch me! I seek _retribution!”_ The voices were coming closer, Ereinion thought with some trepidation, wondering what else could happen that morning.

“Go and see what’s going on, Elrond, please,” he said resignedly as the harsh voices got closer. “It seems that surprises are not over yet...”

For the second time that morning Elrond was unceremoniously pushed inside his king’s tent, this time across the ground and against the table where the architects and Oropher had just reached a partial agreement about the general ratio between trees and stones, with an enraged Telerin prince attached to his throat in a very uncomfortable manner.

“How dare you! I will kill you, slowly and painfully!“

“Stop it, Olvárin!” fast behind the Telerin prince, Celeborn fought to break the deathly grip Olvárin had on Elrond while Ingil bowed courteously around, compunction showing on his fair face. “Stop it, I say! It-was-not-him!”

It was Ereinion who finally managed to free Elrond’s throat and planted himself between the gasping peredhel and the irate and - now that he noticed- soaking wet prince.

“Explain yourself, my lord prince,” the king demanded harshly, his arms folded across his chest, “and make sure you convince me not to put you in chains for storming in my council and assaulting one of my counsellors…”

“You coward, accursed kinslayer, you do not even have the guts to stand for yourself and had to send that… that…”

“You have the wrong peredhel, Olvárin,” Elros said brashly, stepping in from the other corner of the tent. The passing silence that fell upon the assembly was rent by Olvárin’s outraged shout, as he plunged forth in an attempt to strangle the right peredhel.

With the deadly reflexes that had earned him -and his warriors- the wholesome respect of the rest of the army, Ingil extended one of his long, steely muscled arms and blocked Olvárin’s onslaught effortlessly, catching him across the chest and pinning him against his strong, taut body.

“Calm, my friend,” he said in his pleasant voice,” you cannot kill them…”

“Why not?” Olvárin struggled to free himself. “He tried to put my ships to fire at his command...” he roared, nodding to Elros and Ereinion.

There was a rush of murmurs among the assembly, all faces turned to the king of the Noldor in Exile in horrified rejection.

“You cannot do that, Olvárin, they are your kin…”

“You did that, Ereinion?” Celebrimbor chimed in, wonder and respect in his voice.

“Don’t be a fool!” Ereinion snapped, “of course I did not!” he added, his anger rising to unhealthy levels. He suddenly felt the urge to bang his head on the table and get done with everything. A good _kinslapping_ was in order now, he hought in exasperation.

“How come, my kin!” Olvárin had stopped fighting against Ingil’s iron grip, distracted by the chance of a kinslaying that might not involve his people at the receiving end for once. “I am not related to these bloody Finwion...”

“Mind your words, Olvárin!” Finarfin stood up then, his fair face storm clouded and his voice menacing.

“They are Elu’s great-great-grandchildren!” Celeborn chimed in, still casting suspicious glances towards Ereinion. “Elwing’s children, for Ulmo’s sake!”

“You are overreacting!” Elros was claiming, emboldened by the sure clutch Ingil kept upon the dangerously enraged Telerin prince. “We only tried to cook some fish on board and the mast caught fire, and they saw the smoke…”

It was of little help that Elros started laughing then, no doubt at the memory of what had followed, something everybody could surmise with just one look at Olvárin and Celeborn’s soaked garments. A mighty roar broke loose then, as everybody spoke at the same time arguing against or in support of Elros’ explanation.

“Enough!" Ereinion claimed in his most powerful voice. “Enough! Someone please take away Prince Olvárin and explain his family tree to him in full detail, Prince Ingil, I beg of you...”

“Why me?” the usually agreeable High Prince of the Vanyar’s rebellious stance caught everybody by surprise.

“Because you seem to have an effective hold upon him and I would not see him set loose until he has calmed down. King Elros will explain himself to the Prince later…”

“As you wish,” Ingil agreed reluctantly, heedless of Olvárin’s heated protests. “But first,” he added, “I shall need a great sward here,” his long finger pointed at the top of the westernmost cliff in Celebrimbor’s sketched map. “Looking west, for my morning meditation, and I’ll have my halls erected here, facing west, too… And no buildings around from this side to the forest’s edge, please, that’s how I will have it built … what?” he added, noticing the silence around him and the blank stares he was receiving. “I have decided to remain here, you surely can use my help,” he offered seriously, patting Ereinion’s shoulder comfortingly.

“Look, the king’s shield!” the young Silvan elleth’s voice broke through the astonished silence in the tent. “I am Gil-galad! I am a star of Elbereth! Yield now!”

“What star? Those are polished crystals, my adar calls him Brith-galad!” Oropher’s son’s voice rebuked her with careless scorn.

Lord Gundaghâl’s axe would have been needed to cut the wave of silence that spread then like a crawling creature, as Ereinion took three firm strides towards the woollen curtain that separated the sleeping area from the main part of his tent and put it aside to discover the three young elves in there, playing with his weapons.

“My lord! I... we didn’t...” the three looked up in apprehension, too shocked to move or find something else to say.

“Children should not play with weapons,” Ereinion said evenly, sheathing his sword and recovering his spear.

“We are not children anymore,” Oropher’s son muttered stubbornly. “And we know how to defend ourselves.”

Ereinion took his shield gently from the elleth’s hand and put it aside. “I already know that, Thranduil. But you are safe now,” he said softly, “nobody will hurt you here.”

“But my adar says...”

Ereinion hurried to interrupt the defiant youngster before he could further embarrass his adar, who was, by the time, blushing furiously.

“I bet Oropher says lots of things, Thranduil, but I am sure that he, too, tells you that weapons must not be unsheathed or wielded inside a tent or a cabin, doesn’t he?”

The rebellious young Sinda lowered his head, acknowledging the point.

“And I am sure he also insists that you must not draw another elf’s weapons without his consent, I know he does, for he’s a great warrior, and all warriors know that rule...”

“I want to be a warrior, too…” the youngster said softly, looking properly chastised now.

“I am sure you will be a good one,“ Ereinion said, pushing them firmly before him and back to the crowded part of the tent where everybody pretended to be very busy looking another way. “You too, Brethil…Leave my shield alone, Cûiell, will you? And now, I would appreciate that you put an end to what brought you here. Lord Elros, please, I expect that you meet with these young advisors, for they have an interesting proposal to improve the way you take advantage of the forest for your shipbuilding… Lord Erestor will go with you and put down what agreements you reach, in your tent, now, Elros, if you please! … Lady Galadriel, would you be kind enough to escort your relatives to a quiet place where they won’t be disturbed while they calm down?” He pleaded silently that she would comply.

“Of course, my lord,” she said with a playful smile, curtsying briefly in front of him. “Come, Ingil, I’m sure they shall take your requirements into account...” Casting an amused glance around, she pushed them before her and past the expectant crowd, Olvárin still firmly held in Ingil’s strong hold, followed at a safe distance by Erestor, Elros and the three younger elves.

“Now, my lords,” Ereinion addressed his unruly building team, “please take away those maps and come up with something more accurate, taking into account all the needs that have been expressed here… Lord Elrond will act as secretary and will make sure that you work as a team, and please, do not invade my tent again until you have something to show,” he added sternly, fixing Celebrimbor’s protest with a stern glance. ”That’s all, you’re dismissed…” he answered their bows patiently as they paraded obediently before him and outside.

"Lord Gundaghâl, please accept my apologies for all... this...mayhem,” he said, waving around unhappily. “Lord Celeborn here shall meet with you, if he is not otherwise engaged,” he asked, casting a pointed look towards the Sindarin lord, “and will listen to your concerns about the eastern lands. They want to travel East to Hadhodrond,” he addressed Celeborn’s questioning glance, “and he wants to know what elven and edain realms they might cross on their way, as well as any _other_ dangers they might face on their way. You are the most knowledgeable elf in camp in those matters, Lord Celeborn, and I guessed you would be happy to exchange information with Lord Gundaghâl, Lord of Belegost,” he added pointedly.

“It will be my pleasure, Lord Gundaghâl,” Celeborn answered cautiously, taking in all the implications in Ereinion’s words. "Shall we meet in my tent?”

“You can join in the architects' debate later on, my lord,” Ereinion smiled, seeing the longing in the Dwarf-lord’s face, “for I doubt they shall reach an agreement anytime soon, and surely your counsel shall be welcome...”

“You’re right about that, lad,” the Dwarf laughed out loud, “After you, Lord Celeborn!”

“Lord Oropher will join you, too,” Ereinion added, carefully studying the still blushing elf. “As self-declared representative of a group of Silvan elves, he may be interested in your debates,” he said slowly, grimacing slightly at the astonished looks both Sindarin lords threw his way. “I expect a fully detailed report of this meeting, Lord Celeborn,” he warned. Celeborn nodded briefly before leading his companions out, bowing to Finarfin and Círdan.

“It was not so difficult to get rid of all of them,” he jested lamely, turning his attention to the Shipwright. "Forgive me if you expected something from me at this moment, my lord, but I must now meet with my king," Ereinion said softly to Círdan, who was standing by the breakfast table, an amused look upon his bearded face.

“You have become truly good at hiding your exasperation, Ereinion, I had not noticed!” Círdan praised him with an encouraging grin. “Since you have everything under control here,” he continued, placing a reassuring hand upon his ward’s shoulder, “ I will go and try to talk Olvárin and Ingil back to sanity... I will be in the shipyards if you need me, my lord,” he added, bowing lightly and stepping out.

Ereinion breathed in deeply and turned resolutely to face the dreaded confrontation with his uncle and High King.

“My lord…” he began, dropping to a knee and bowing his head before Finarfin.

**TBC**


	7. Flying Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Círdan wonders about his foster son’s lack of subtlety, Celeborn tires of words and Oropher delves in dwarven treasures.

“Take this, you don’t want to test the accuracy of that legend on your own face…”

The young king of the Noldor managed a wan smile as he lifted his head from its resting place on his knees. He took the proffered leather strap and tied back the unruly raven locks that whipped at his tear-streaked face in the tireless sea breeze.

“Is it true, then?” he asked in a hoarse voice, as the Shipwright sat by his side upon the wind beaten rock.

“Who knows?" Círdan shrugged with his customary grumpiness, fixing his gaze on the ruffled sea, watching it become on fire by the proximity of sunset.

Círdan was a wise elf, the most ancient of those who still dwelled in Middle-earth, and had learned long ago that everything would come to its appointed end, sooner or later.

He had seen his own world founder when his eagerness to reach the Blessed Realm was hindered by Ulmo’s designs, after all.

He had stood upon a cliff for years uncounted, alone, facing the sea, praying to the Lord of Waters for mercy, until he came to accept that it was his fate to remain in Middle-earth. As legend had it among the Teleri his silvery hair, tired of floating unheeded in the relentless winds, had stuck to his fair face and started growing there, encouraged by the endless tears of the stranded and anguished Elf.

When he had finally returned to his people, bearded as the strangest creature yet to be born, he had been shrouded in an inner calm and an air of confidence that had never since deserted him; the certainty of one who has seen the end of all things and has beheld the uttermost hope beyond it.

“I heard about your stallion,” he said after a short silence in his low, harsh speech. "I’m sorry, lad," he offered, patting the youngster's shoulder clumsily. The report from the stable master had prompted Círdan to go in search of his charge -an easy task, since the young king had shown a penchant for heights since very early in his life.

"He saved my life thrice..." Ereinion sighed in a cracked voice. _And I failed to save his, as well as many others’._ The unsaid words hung between them in the evening’s breeze. Círdan could do nothing but pressing comfortingly upon the bony shoulder and hoping that Ereinion would find the strength to overcome the grief, as he always did.

“How was the rest of your day?” the young king asked after another stretch of companionable silence, in a steadier voice.

“Not bad, after such a busy morning.” Círdan leaned to rest his back on a rock. “Let me inform you, my King, that we have been invaded…” he added in his offhanded way.

“Olvárin's people, I know,”

“Do you?”

“Why, I noticed…”

“Shrewd boy...”

“I learnt from the best...”

“Now you’re being sarcastic...”

“Never meant to, my lord…. Shall I take it, then, that Olvárin overcame his anger? I knew of your diplomatic skills, but this surpasses any other deed, my lord Shipwright!”

“You would know! Let’s say that, given that their prince had disembarked… the rest of his crews understood that they were to follow…Have I ever told you that groaning is unbecoming in a king?” he added at the dismayed sounds coming from Ereinion.

“Is that good or bad? What about Olvárin?

“To your first question, I am not all that sure. They are like a plague, swarming everywhere. I sent some to our shipyards to help Olvárin, maybe all of them they can teach Elros the difference between _timber_ and good wood to which you’ll entrust your crew’s safety on a long sail...”

Círdan could not blame Ereinion for smiling at his rant. There were few issues that managed to unsettle the shipwright, and those close to him knew well that disparaging the fruits from the forest ranked top amongst those.

“As for Olvárin…well, provided he survives the unduly harsh punishment you delivered to him, I am sure he will be too bored teaching the Edain the art of shipbuilding to attempt murdering Elros for a second time… What are you laughing about, young one?”

“I would have loved to see Olvárin’s face as Ingil explained his family tree to him…did you know that Ingil always carries along parchment, quill and ink?“

“Does he?” Círdan’s hairy brows attempted escape.

“Why, yes! I saw him on the battlefield! He would take out his writing stuff and start putting down or drawing whatever struck him as new!"

“He must have needed a whole army to carry his notes, then."

“Now _you_ are being sarcastic, my lord Shipwright.”

“Sarcastic? Why, one would be tempted to say Valinor is nothing but an empty waste, judging by the way he looks at everything… It’s surprising he didn’t manage to get himself killed…”

“You saw how fast he is… so, did you manage to find out why Olvárin was convinced that I ordered Elros to put his ships to fire?”

“Oh!” Círdan extended his long legs and sighed, fighting to control his mirth. “As Elros said, they, I mean, he and two or three of his dim-witted men, took a boat and sailed very close to Olvárin’s fleet. The mast of their boat “caught” fire, somehow, and it started burning with a black smoke, undoubtedly fanned by their clumsy efforts to put it out by throwing more flammable substances at it….”

Círdan stopped his account to settle down his long beard, which was flapping against Ereinion’s face, who knew better than to complain. Satisfied with his foster son’s restraint, Círdan continued his tale placidly.

“ _Chance_ had it that they were sailing all too close to Olvárin’s ship when they started crying something along the lines of _“Fire, the ship’s on fire!”_. You were there, it was your tent they almost flooded with their dripping clothes, so you can guess what Olvárin and Celeborn, and Olvárin’s crew, did next. Do you find this amusing, young one?” he added sternly, fixing Ereinion with a glare as they both stifled unbecoming chuckles.

“No my lord, I do not. Now half the camp thinks that I ordered that folly…”

“Fear not. It was too clumsy, even for your standards...”

“My thanks, Lord Círdan, your support is comforting, as always…”

Despite the mild, affectionate irony, Círdan needed not see the grateful look in the grey eyes to know that the young one was actually reassured. They understood each other, and they had grown to appreciate, why, love, each other through the years. Detached bantering was the best way to uplift the king’s spirits, Círdan had discovered long ago.

Anyway, Círdan wouldn’t spoil the king’s amused smile by asking him why Olvárin had turned against him on the first place. The story of how Ereinion had been shamed and chased from the docks earlier that morning had of course reached his ears -he had felt deeply sorry for his charge. Ereinion was used to it, after all, Círdan thought ruthlessly, although it had been some time now since someone had last blamed the young Noldo for his father’s crime.

“So, how was your meeting with Finarfin?”

“Oh.”

Círdan feared that tone.

“As expected, I suppose. At least... I didn’t embarrass myself more than usual...” Ereinion answered at last.

“Did you call him G _olodh_? Stone–eater?”

“No…”

“You’re learning, then,” Círdan patted him reassuringly. “Now, tell me how it went...”

“Mmm…first, I told him that…I would disobey his orders again if the chance presented itself…No, wait!” he added at Círdan’s groan of dismay. “I told him that I acknowledged him as my High King, but that I had sworn to protect and serve all elves and elves’ friends in the lands of Hither, I mean, you know that, Círdan, there were more than Noldorin subjects in Balar and Sirion when I became their king, whatever it is that it means,” he added with hardly disguised bitterness. “So,” he kept on, forcing his tone to neutrality,” I told him that I had knowingly disobeyed him for the well-being of my people.“

“And...”

“Well, he seemed to accept it, although, now that I come to think of it, maybe I shouldn’t have started by saying that I would disobey him again…”

“It might have helped your case, yes, if you had not...” Círdan agreed.

“Then, I told him that… I... would grant his daughter any position she might desire, but that I would never defer the kingship to her... are you unwell, Círdan?” he worried while Círdan choked.

“No, Yes. No. Why on Arda did you say that?” the mariner was fighting to recover his breath.

“Oh…” the young king sounded a bit ashamed. “Celebrimbor feared…he told me that she might pretend... Well, it doesn’t matter, anyway…”

“I see.” Círdan was beginning to understand some of the subtle signs he had glimpsed back in Ereinion’s tent. _Last night’s conversation with Celebrimbor must have been tense_ , he thought.

“Well, the king choked, too. I told him that, unfit as he might find me for the kingship, I intended to fulfil my duty to all those I had sworn to protect, to the bitter end.”

“Well said, lad! What did he do, then?”

“Mmm, first, he took a long draught, and then he did that waving thing with his hand… why didn’t you teach me that, Círdan?”

“What did he _say,_ Ereinion!” Círdan’s thin patience was reaching its end. _He's spending too much time around Ingil, becoming too literal, it seems!_ he thought in exasperation.

“Oh! He said that he would like to have me back, for my grandmother’s sake, and that he would also have his daughter back, even if that meant that the would have to drag along her stiff-necked husband, because his wife would be distraught to learn that none of their children would return to them, but that he respected our decision…I pitied him, then,” he added softly.

Círdan smiled inwardly. He credited Ereinion’s bloodline for his traits, but he relished seeing how he had helped such good qualities evolve. His great generous heart was one of those things the shipwright was very proud of.

“And then… the conversation ended… somehow...abruptly… I fear...” His tactlessness and lack of subtlety, on the other side, Círdan wasn’t entirely sure whom to credit for.

“What happened?” he asked with a long-suffering sigh.

“It wasn’t my fault, Círdan!”

Offering excuses in advance wasn’t a good sign. Círdan groaned. “What happened…”

“I just…reminded him…”

“Celebrimbor.” Círdan said flatly. “Ereinion...”

“Just let me explain! He said that her daughter and I, and the Peredhil, were the only remaining members of his departed family and I told him that there was another… Well, he blanched; he stood up, pierced me with that blazing glare of his and stormed out…” he added in dismay. “I did not even get to mention Maglor!”

“I am not going to ask you why you support Celebrimbor with such vehemence. Just be careful, Ereinion.”

“He is one of my closest kin, Círdan. And he is being constantly shunned. The Fëanorians distrust him, the Doriathrim would have his head, and even the survivors of Sirion suspect him for he was in Balar when his uncles attacked. He’s not the easiest of elves to get along with, but I know how he feels, and it is my duty to support him.”

“He was a kinslayer on the first place, Ereinion, do not forget that...”

“So was my father.” The stubbornness of Finwë’s line was there, in the small frown between his eyes. “And you granted him forgiveness and offered him your friendship…”

“So did I," Círdan sighed after a moment in which both locked eyes. “And see how I was rewarded,” he added with a mock sigh of exasperation, standing up and extending his hand to pull the young king up along. “It’ll take us about ten sun-rounds at the very least to build that fleet, by the way…” he added in an offhanded way.

“My lord?”

“You have ten sun-rounds to turn Elros into an acceptable king.”

“Me? Why me?”

“Because you are the elf best suited for the job, lad, let’s go back,” he added, smiling at the pleased look upon his foster son’s face. Things wouldn’t be easy, Círdan thought, carefully stepping down the rocky cliff, but Ereinion would certainly do his best, and he would make sure that was more than enough.

***

“A word with you, Celeborn?”

 _Another?_ Celeborn thought wearily, rolling up the parchments and clearing the desk. He had endured more words than he had expected, that day. Oropher and the Dwarf-lord had started bickering like two old crows quarrelling over an unattainable prize the moment they entered Celeborn’s tent, and had not stopped fighting as he changed his soaked garments, and during the tiresome discussion that had followed.

Despite Oropher’s efforts, the conversation had ended up being useful, he thought as he put aside the maps they had come to draft and the various notes about the lands to the east and the trade routes of old.

“I must meet with Ereinion now, I promised to brief him on the tentative agreements.” Celeborn was not sure whether to be thankful or resentful towards the king for tricking him into that meeting, but he did not intend to neglect his duty in any case.

“No, wait!” Oropher grabbed his arm. “You cannot!”

“Why?” Celeborn freed himself from his friend’s grasp, put the parchments and maps under his arm and pushed the tent flap open. Oropher followed reluctantly.

“Celeborn, trust me… they are cheating on us...” he added in a soft whisper, looking around as if fearing prying ears.

“Cheating? Who?” Celeborn had to step aside due to an unusually intense flow of people in camp. “What’s going on?” he asked to nobody in particular.

“You noticed, too? They seem familiar to me…” Oropher said, his voice turning ominous.

Celeborn looked around in wonder, studying the swarming crowds that seemed to flood the camp. Some silver heads served to dispel his concerns, though.

“Oh, I see,” he smiled, “those are Olvárin’s people, they would have disembarked, eventually...”

“Wise decision, “ Oropher said gloomily, “they might have been burnt alive by his orders…”

“Ereinion’s?” Celeborn’s brows raised almost on their own accord. “I don’t think so...” he started slowly.

“Why!“ Oropher was incensed. “You heard Olvárin. You surely don’t mean he was lying….”

Celeborn sighed. He remembered well Olvárin's harsh words that morning at the quay, and Ereinion’s hurt expression, but he seriously doubted that the Noldo had come to order that tasteless, dangerous prank.

“Besides, his father was one of those who did it before, wasn’t he? He was just following his example…” Oropher added angrily.

“Oh, yes, indeed!” Celeborn’s patience was growing thin. “Everybody knows the tale, Oropher. Fingon burnt his own ship at Alqualondë and then crossed the Ice on foot with his kin...” he said with undisguised sarcasm.

“Why that doesn’t surprise me?” Oropher said thoughtfully. “Wasn’t he too, the dumb one who went alone and unaided to Thangorodrim and challenged Morgoth into single combat over that handless, bloody Fëanorian? Wait, how did it go? he survived, didn’t he?”

“To the point, Oropher,” Celeborn refrained from enlightening his friend on Noldorin history with a suffering sigh.

“The point is that the boy king and the dwarf are holding out on us, and they now know what you know, but we do not know what they know. I have my sources, Celeborn,” he added hurriedly before Celeborn could express his scepticism other than raising his brows. “I know for sure that the Dwarf-lord has maps of secret elven realms to the East and that he, together with _Brith-Galad_ are plotting to overcome them and put the Peredhel in charge... well, this I guess,” he added honestly, “but since he allowed me to be present in the talks with the Dwarf, it is clear that he did not expect anything of significance to be revealed… All I need is a bit more time, Celeborn, don’t go to your king now...”

“He’s not my king!” Celeborn answered before thinking.

“Then help your people, my friend. Give me time to find out...”

Celeborn had the feeling that he was being manoeuvred. On the other hand, though, he truly trusted Oropher’s judgement, had done for log ennin.

“What are you asking of me?” he said warily, dodging another bunch of overexcited, roaming Teleri mariners.

When Oropher ended his explanations, they were almost before the Dwarf’s tent and he had no way of escaping his friend’s masterfully laid trap, as the Dwarf-lord exited it with his proud stance, looking every inch as smug as…a dwarf who’s cheating Sindarin elves, Celeborn had to admit, his suspicions raising a point or two.

“I thought you were to meet with your king now, Lord Celeborn” the dwarf observed in a not wholly unpleasant way.

 _He’s. Not. My. King._ Celeborn thought in sharp Cirth as he composed a mild smile. “I was, Lord Gundaghâl, but there are some things I would like to verify with you, first, so, if you don’t mind, I’ll walk with you for a while… where are you headed?” he asked conversationally, winking at Oropher, who bowed low and walked away.

****

Finarfin's incensed pacing had taken him, not wholly unexpectedly, to the place he had been avoiding since he had left Ereinion’s tent in an unusual show of bad temper that morning. He had tried to distract himself, checking with his troop commanders about the supplies for the return trip and the advances made in identifying names and family lines of those of Noldorin descent travelling to Eressëa, as well as those remaining.

Many of those sailing had relatives in Valinor, and Finarfin knew all too well that a grandchild or a great-grandchild would be a more than welcome surprise for grieving families who would be seeing few of the loved ones who had followed Fingolfin’s host returning.

The thought had burnt upon his mind as he considered his own mother, his wife, and his brother’s wife’s bereavement.

Ereinion’s words stung him again.

And he remembered then Nerdanel’s sad, resigned face the last time he had seen her, as she watched the Silmaril on Eärendil’s ship, a mixture of relief, revulsion and unbearable longing upon her deep eyes.

With a sharp order to accelerate the proceedings he left his tent and went for a walk, in an attempt to calm his reeling thoughts and find the right course of action.

The sight of Ingil trying to put a semblance of order in the Telerin crews’ unruly invasion of the huge camp made him smile. _My mother wouldn’t forgive me were I to leave Ingil behind,_ he thought amusedly, walking deeper into the forest to avoid the turmoil in the busy camp.

And now he was where he had sworn not to set foot, in the Fëanorian corner of that mixed encampment. Finarfin entered the silent area with a scowl, as a banner carrying Fëanáro’s fiery seal rippled smoothly over his head. He could not avoid a reluctant satisfaction, though, at the sight of a well-ordered and rationally arranged camp.

There were milestones at the crossings, with clearly identified signs leading to the different areas. Workshops were built on stone and set apart from the residential areas to avoid fumes spreading towards the place where tents and cabins stood. Wellstones were carefully carved, and ditches and channels carried clear, fresh water to every corner of that neat camp. Despite all his misgivings, Finarfin’s Noldorin mind felt almost at home at that familiar sight. He easily found his way towards the hugest workshop; the one he guessed would be Celebrimbor’s.

Without knocking, he pushed the wooden door open, and could not hold back a surprised gasp at the sight that greeted him.

Six pairs of blazing eyes returned his amazed stare as six pairs of hands fought clumsily to hide what could not be hidden from the High King’s discerning gaze.

As he got used to the dim light inside the workshop, Finarfin took in other details, and finally let his eyes rest on the face of the one holding the bellows

“A word with you, Lord Celebrimbor,” he said sternly, turning his back and stepping outside to the light of the sun and the gentle breeze.

“My lord,” a tense if beautiful voice shook him from his contemplation, “I can explain…” Finarfin waved him into silence curtly and nodded to a clean path that wound its way towards the forest and away from the workshops. They walked in silence for a while and then Finarfin stopped and turned to face Celebrimbor. He stared into fiery eyes that met his unwaveringly, and took in the pain, the remorse, the uncertainty, but also the pride and ruthless determination that were the mark of his line.

“I…I assume that you don’t intend to sail West...” he said sternly. Celebrimbor didn’t move or acknowledge his words.

Finarfin sighed, trying to control his exasperation. “If you want my opinion, it is a wise decision,” he added.

“Because it saves you many problems?” Celebrimbor could not hold back his tongue, his mouth twisting in a contemptuous smirk as he added, “my lord?” in a clearly mocking tone.

“Because it gives you the chance to redeem yourself beyond the Valar’s granted and wholly undeserved forgiveness, you spoiled runt of a bad excuse for you grandfather’s talents!” Finarfin’s unexpected fit of temper shocked Celebrimbor in place and made him blush as he bowed his head.

“You still have a grandmother and a mother who will be glad to learn that you are alive, but shall feel pride in knowing that you remained here, and pledged to serve your king loyally and to lay your life down for him should the need arise, to atone for your misdeeds and for those of your father!” Finarfin wondered that his voice sounded firm as he finally managed to hint at Curufin and Celegorm’s traitorous deed in Nargothrond, the actual reason why he had been shunning Celebrimbor. “Am I clear?”

“You are, my lord,” Celebrimbor’s voice was little more than a whisper, and this time he could not meet the blazing eyes of the enraged and grieving king.

Finarfin fixed him in his glare until he felt he could manage his breathing and calm his temper. “I will be glad to carry back messages and presents, if you have some that you want consigned to your family, Tyelperinquë.”

“Will you…deliver them, my lord?” the fëanorian asked faintly.

Finarfin exhaled and closed his eyes briefly. “I cannot promise, nephew,” he said coarsely, "but I’ll try to…for they, much as you, are innocent of your father’s crimes,” he finally managed through only partially clenched teeth.

“You have my deepest thanks, my lord,” Celebrimbor bowed and then made as if to kneel before his king. Finarfin held his arm and made him stand up.

“It is not to me to whom you’re indebted, but to the king whom you shall swear to serve. And rest assured that should you ever dare betray him, I will chase you to the very Halls of Waiting and make sure your punishment will make Morgoth feel he’s got the best lot!” For a moment he feared that Celebrimbor’s head would fall off its hinges, so he put both hands upon the feänorian’s shoulders to make him stop nodding.

“Regarding what I’ve just glimpsed inside your forge...” he added sternly.

“My, lord, I can explain, I have been…”

“You willl hear from me, Lord Celebrimbor,” Finarfin said sternly, and with a curt nod he walked away, feeling both relieved and sad.

****

Erestor’s sharp senses had been honed in his long years in the forests of drowned Beleriand. A proven hunter, as well as a fell warrior, he knew how to wait for his prey to make a mistake, how to melt in the forest and disappear from sight, how to hold back his breath and remain unmoving, ready to fall upon his unsuspecting quarry, whom, for now, seemed quite busy freeing himself from a tangle of cords that flew around the open flap of a tent.

“Pinching from an allied lord’s belongings is a hanging offence among dwarves, Lord Oropher,” he said gleefully, stepping out from nowhere to stand beside the entangled Sindarin lord.

“I'm not…” Oropher grunted, fighting with the cords. “Will you help me, Erestor?“

“There,” Erestor smiled, freeing him, “now, shall I take you before our king, or rather before the allied Dwarf-lord whose tent you were plundering...”

“I wasn’t plundering!” the short-tempered Sindarin lord seemed ready to explode, even as Erestor made an irritating noise with his tongue.

“Your manners, my lord. I heard that you already received lessons from this particular Dwarf-lord, but apparently they did not stick …now, no wonder your son was raiding the King’s tent… no offence meant,” Erestor added quickly at the warning look that crossed Oropher’s eyes, “he’s a fine young lord, and I’ll refrain myself from commenting about you family,” he added, “if you kindly explain why on Arda were you trying to provoke an incident between us and the dwarven colonies east and west?”

Erestor’s voice had now reached the point of freezing, and Oropher knew better that to take him lightly.

“You’re a Nandorin elf, Erestor.“

“Thanks for reminding me, Oropher...” They had walked to a secluded area behind some tents, a place free of Olvárin's mariners, and had sat down uncomfortably on the ground.

“And you spent many years in Menegroth, enjoying Elu’s hospitality after Denethor fell…”

“Indeed. Alas that we did not enjoy his timely help instead,” Erestor agreed coldly.

“Whatever.” Oropher cleared his throat, furiously searching for another approach. “The Dwarf is cheating on us, Erestor, I know that. I’d say that _Brith_ …” Erestor’s cold glance convinced him to change words on the spot, “the king knows of his plan, too.”

“Oh, does he?”

“Hear me out, Erestor!“ he pleaded. “He’s a Noldorin lord, no matter what Círdan and you want to believe, and now he’s allied himself with those Peredhil and the Dwarf. They know of scattered and secret elven realms, the Dwarf has shown the maps to your king, and surely to you and…”

“Wait, wait, wait...how do you know this?” Erestor interrupted him. “You must tell me first, if you want me to trust you.”

“I need not your trust,” Oropher said regally. “I wasn’t plundering, I was searching for maps for I intend to travel east with my people and settle down away from a Noldorin lord who is betraying us and keeping information from us. I just... overheard the Peredhil plotting!”

“I see…” Erestor nodded, as he began to suspect. “I am ready to forget that I saw you crawling out of Lord Gundaghâl’s tent, Oropher, which could be considered a most serious offence, I remind you...” Oropher bit his lip but said nothing. “In exchange,“ Erestor kept on mercilessly, “I want you to go to the shipyards and help your son and his friends teach the Edain how to choose and cut down the appropriate trees for their shipbuilding...you wanted to add anything, my lord?”

“Your generosity shall be remembered, Lord Erestor,” Oropher grunted as he bowed stiffly and walked away, muttering to himself.

Erestor watched him depart with an amused smile and then walked to a well-known tent.

“Elrond,” he called, entering the peredhel’s tent with a cheerful smile, “I was wondering about some secret maps to the Eastern lands…”

**TBC**


	8. Before the Festival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some days have passed and everybody is busy hiding something from somebody.

_A week later; Midyear’s Eve._

There was only one thing Círdan enjoyed more than building ships, and it was sailing them.

He was in a good mood, then, after a long bath, sitting before his tent in that glorious midyear’s eve sunset, shaking his long silver mane to allow Arien’s last rays dry his wet hair, because he had just returned from a five days' trip in which he had explored those new waters.

Never had the ships of the Teleri sailed that south, and he had enjoyed travelling along the coast and chartering the unknown lands, the tall cliffs, the hidden coves, the grasslands, the forests that at places peered into the serene waters of the many channels that pierced the abrupt shoreline to the east.

They had discovered thriving fisheries and sighted plenty of game, too. Those were good news indeed, since providing food for such great numbers, as well as supplies for those about to depart, was becoming a cumbersome task.

He had been glad, above all, to leave behind the strained atmosphere in camp.

Everybody had looked strangely on edge since that eventful, crowded council in Ereinion’s tent. After that, Círdan had been amused to see Oropher joining his son in teaching the edain care for the woods, apparently on his own accord, and had not managed to hold back a raucous laughter when he learned that Ereinion had accepted Olvárin’s excuses for the Telerin prince’s unseemly invasion of his tent. Then he had kindly asked him to oversee the Edain’s ship building project for a time in return, much to Elros' dismay.

Erestor’s creative and subtle disciplining methods seemed to have seeped into the young king, Círdan thought with amusement, as he greeted Merenel, one of his advisors, who was ready to update him on what had come about during his short absence.

“Everything’s in order for tonight’s celebrations, Círdan; seafood, dead wood, and wine. The King of the Noldor was only too willing to have their ships’ holds open for us…oh! And I forgot to tell you that we have now five dwarves in residence… Lord Gundaghâl sent for his guards, which apparently had been camping out there in the forest since his arrival and were becoming _restless_ … It has been one of Erestor’s most successful diplomatic missions to date,” the other elf laughed out loudly.

“Shall I ask him about it?” the shipwright asked amusedly. He knew that wouldn’t be necessary, given that all the meaningful information converged to him as if propelled by an invisible current drifting across the camp.

“I would suggest that you waited until he has tried the king’s wine,” Merenel snorted, “for your own safety”.

Círdan was about to ask for details when the sight of Elrond leaving his tent conspicuously carrying a large roll of parchment under his arm caught his attention.

“What are they doing, Merenel?” Elrond and Erestor’s continuous comings and goings pretending to hide great sheets of parchment on plain sight had awakened Círdan’s curiosity before he left, and they seemed to keep up with whatever game they were playing at.

“I wish I knew," the advisor answered, not even trying to disguise his bafflement. “They’ve been at it for over a week, and I cannot decipher what the game is about...” he complained.

Before Círdan could share his own suspicions they were rendered speechless by an outraged roar that escaped the king’s tent, not far away from where they were sitting.

“Enough!” Ereinion was saying, and a heartbeat later he stormed out of his tent and marched forth with determined strides.

“Ingil? Olvárin? Oropher? The Dwarf?” Merenel was merrily ticking off the possible causes for Ereinion’s anger, as one of the captains got out of the king’s tent after him with a chagrined expression on his face.

“Enlighten me, please,” Círdan said placidly, as he started braiding his long mane, sufficiently dried by Arien’s rays, and leaned back, ready to be amused by the tale of his ward’s tribulations.

*****

Ereinion strode into _their_ glade, his temper showing in the tense way he carried himself. His eyes glared with half-contained exasperation, but Celeborn could discern something else; wariness, betrayal, and raw hurt, the same he had glimpsed in the young Noldo’s face when Olvárin had chased him from his ships days ago.

They stood up reluctantly, disentangling themselves from each other, or almost.

“Ereinion,” his wife nodded evenly.

“I expected a report of your meeting with the Dwarf-lord, Lord Celeborn,” the king’s voice was controlled yet not to the point of completely hiding his anger, “a week ago,” he added, bowing to Galadriel as he acknowledged her greeting.

“Oropher just wanted some time to...”

“Oropher?” the king all but spat the name. “Forgive me, Lord Celeborn,” he continued with undisguised scorn, “I had not realized that you bowed to Oropher’s authority…”

“I do not,” Celeborn’s tone of voice was cold as ice, and he felt Galadriel tense by his side. Few had ever seen him truly enraged, but he was getting very close to it now.

“I recall asking to be informed of the result of your meeting,” Ereinion kept on in a more controlled tone. “And I can swear that you nodded, if slightly, to me. If you did not intend to report back, at least you should have had the guts to say so on the spot!”

Celeborn bit his lip and tried to control the the spasm of anger that crossed his frame all of a sudden, held to Galadriel’s hand even tighter, trying not to react to Ereinion’s provoking stance.

“You are insulting me, young one,” he said slowly. “As I have just said that Oropher asked for some more time before informing you…”

“I may be young and inexperienced, but I am not stupid, Lord Celeborn,” Ereinion said in a serious voice, still addressing him formally. "Oropher wanted more time to start gathering a following! He presents himself as leader of a group that shall demand to travel east and claim a realm there, not that I would ever oppose to that!” he added heatedly, "but he is spreading word that he’s more capable and trustworthy than I am, taking advantage of whatever details you and the Dwarf-lord may have exchanged, details you are yet to brief me about,” he added very seriously.“I care not if you make me appear as naive and ignorant before my High King,” the king continued pointedly, “but I will not allow anyone to undermine the trust and confidence of my people for their own purposes! I placed my trust on you, Lord Celeborn, I granted the two of you access to this information and now it is being used against me!” he added hoarsely, breathing heavily.

“How do you know that?” Celeborn inquired, his eyes narrowed, his eyes fixed on the king’s.

“I do not spy on him or you, if that’s what worries you,” Ereinion answered haughtily. ”But you must remember that two thirds of the troops that follow my command are Sindar and Wood elves. For Eru’s sake, Celeborn, what did you think Oropher would do with this information, while you witheld it from me? He has been spreading word around the camp trying to gather a host that would follow him East behind my back, claiming that _I_ am the one hiding the information from them!”

Celeborn stifled a groan as Oropher’s true motives became clear to him. “I thought… I thought he needed time to draft a plan…” Celeborn said softly, shaking his head. “I never meant to cause you harm.” The shock that he was not quick enough to hide must have showed on his face, convicing Ereinion of the truth of his words.

“I see,” Ereinion said hoarsely, his tense shoulders slumping in sudden defeat as he acknowledged Celeborn’s innocence. “It is done, now.” He turned then to Galadriel, a weary look upon his face. “I told your lord father that I would grant you whatever position you desired, my lady,” he added softly, “and that I would be honoured to count both of you among my counsellors, for it is said that you are wise and experienced in matters of ruling…I would never let my pride prevent me from asking for help, if it is for the well-being of my people, but, since your wisdom and counsel have been denied to me twice, I shall not be fool enough to keep asking for what won’t be granted, my lord and lady. Please consider yourselves released from any allegiance that you might have ever felt bound by, if any,” he added bitterly. “By your leave.” Bowing slightly, he walked away.

“I must talk to Oropher,” Celeborn groaned some time after Ereinion had left.

“You better do it before I find him,” his wife agreed, her voice deceptively mild. “And I will find my father and ask him what was all that about…” she added with a wicked smile Celeborn did not like at all.

****

“… A place where we can lead our lives as we want to, away from those warmongering Noldorin lords, away from wars and weapons, and bustling shipyards and noisy, smoky forges and smelly fisheries, and tales of vain glory to cover tears for mourned lost ones…”

The Wood-elves had built up their “ _Bar-en Athrabeth”_ or “house of conversation” not very deep into the forest to the western side of the encampment, in a shady glade surrounded by mighty trees. It was a wooden, square structure, covered by leaves and open on its four sides, presently full of elves, male and female, and even children, assembled there and listening intently to Oropher’s inspired speech. Few heads turned to greet Celeborn as he approached the last rows silently.

“I offer you a new land, and freedom, and wide forests where the Noldor have never set their stomping feet; forests where orcs have never been sighted and evil is only a bad memory, where our friends and ancestors, those who forsook the Great March, still dwell in peace as our forefathers did by the waters of Cuiviénen…”

“What is wrong with this land?” an elf not far from where Celeborn stood asked aloud. “There are forests aplenty, fresh water, game, mild climate, and our friends and relatives are here…”

“As well as a Noldorin king, _”_ Oropher spat. “You know what that means; quarrels, arguments, fights for power, expansion and war. They killed our people and ransacked our cities…what do we owe them, after all?”

“Some of them!” a female voice pointed out. “Others have protected us, and fought for us, too,” she added with conviction.

“And they taught us some useful things. I used to live in Nargothrond before the dragon came, and we learnt many useful things about stone carving, and forging, and ancient lore…”

“The king has brought fresh water to the encampment…”

“And the army follows his command, even Sindarin warriors from Doriath, Lord Oropher.”

“And he ordered a place arranged for children to play in…”

“He’s consulting where and how we want to build our homes!”

“And he stopped the Edain from destroying the forest, as you know only too well, Lord Oropher…”

“His patrols bring in food daily...”

“And helped us build shelters…”

“And Círdan defers to him in most matters… “

Celeborn was fighting back an amused laughter at Oropher’s mounting despair. What had begun in a very inspired way was now getting out of control as Ereinion’s undeniable organizational skills unexpectedly paid off.

“He is allying with dwarves!“ Oropher spat out, “and you know what that means!” his voice was almost pleading.

“Good!” A strange elf clad in green stood up then, a feral gleam upon his eyes. “We cannot leave now, can we? We must watch the Naugrim carefully, and if they threaten to betray us… maybe we can flatten them again!” he said, hitting his clenched left fist upon his right palm with undisguised excitement.

 _He must be one of those wild Laeg Faradrim, the elusive wood elves from Ossiriand_ , Celeborn surmised, those who had politely invited Finrod either to move the edain west, away from their lands, or be pincushioned together with them; the same ones who had helped Beren and the Onodrim “flatten” the dwarves of Nogrod in that renowned battle after Thingol’s death and the sack of Doriath.

“It is not that we do not agree with you, Lord Oropher, we understand your concerns and we share your dreams,” an elf Celeborn remembered as a scribe or assistant from Elu’s court spoke softly, while Oropher lowered his head as if in defeat, “but our people are tired, and hurt, and mourning, and there are many that are not ready to undertake another long and uncertain journey anytime soon...”

“We can rest here for some time, and help our kin build a dwelling among these trees,” another Wood elf spoke.

“It would be disloyal to depart now, when all hands are needed to help settling down…”

That was the reasoning that would win the day, it seemed, as a soft murmur of approval spread gently among that kind crowd, and they began to disperse fluidly.

“We appreciate your efforts, Lord Oropher,” a tall, imposing elf Celeborn knew by sight and who was held in high esteem by the unruly Wood elves of Ossiriand approached the dejected Sindarin lord. “And I expect that you don’t give up. Much more needs to be learned about those lands to the East before moving our people there, but I, for one, look forward to hearing news of what is to be expected there. You will have my full support then,” he added seriously, bowing to the beaming elf.

“You heard that?” Oropher smiled to Celeborn, “Master Galadhond approves of my idea...”

“Have you been holding these meetings since we met with the Dwarf, Oropher?”

“Why, of course!” Oropher was undaunted by Celeborn’s icy tone. “I haven’t managed to lay hands upon those parchments the Peredhel and Erestor are guarding so carefully, but I don’t need them, I believe…They are ready to follow my lead to the east, all I need is to undercover Ereinion’s plot and…”

That gave Celeborn pause. He had actually spied Erestor and Elrond carrying parchments in great secrecy around the camp. What if Oropher was right and Ereinion was making arrangements and decisions without consulting with them?

“They despise us, Celeborn, all those Noldor and the Elves from Aman, we matter not to them. You’ve seen that, much as I have, and the Dwarf-lord has been closeted in that accursed Fëanorian’s forge the whole week…”

“Which are your intentions?” Celeborn asked grimly.

“I intend to move a host as great as it can be assembled to the east, and force _Brith-Galad_ and the Dwarf to grant control of the route to us.”

“Do you actually know what it is to be found there, apart form Lord Gundaghâl’s vague account? For he knew little more than I do about those lands! These people are right, Oropher, they are tired and shaken and still mourning their lost lands and loved ones. They care not for another Great March but for a peaceful land…”

“It is not to be found here, Celeborn, you know that much as I do, not with so many Noldorin, and Noldorin descended people here fighting to make their voices heard and their advice heeded. The East is where we come from and where we can find the peace we’ve been lacking...”

“I will go and report to Ereinion now,” Celeborn said slowly. “Not of your activities,” he added at his friend’s murderous glance, “for I am sure he already knows. Some, if not most of those who attend your meetings bow to him, Oropher, or have relatives who do, or have fought by his side...or have seen him fight for them and respect him. You may yet convince some of them to follow you to the East, but it will not be out of spite towards Gil-galad,” he warned his friend.

“I care not,” Oropher grunted, avoiding his friend’s eyes. “I know that you married one of them, but I still consider that Elu was wrong when he let those Noldorin princes enter his kingdom. They brought their doom with them and that ended our peace.”

“Resentment is a dangerous feeling, my friend. It is like handling a poison and expecting another to be envenomed by it…”

“Well, I think I’ve been handling poison for way too long without consequence,” Oropher shrugged bitterly, “so it is time now to do something more effective. I’ll build a great kingdom, Celeborn, and, mark my words, one day the boy king shall bow before me and ask for my help!” he added with undisguised spite.

 _And he will do it willingly if it is for the good of his people,_ Celeborn thought, remembering Ereinion’s words in the clearing. _Will you be as good a king as he is and give your support gladly, without grudges, my friend?”_ I’ll see you at the festival, Oropher,” he said aloud, patting his friend’s shoulder and walking away.

****

“But that’s indeed good news, Lord Círdan!” Finarfin was shouting to make himself heard above the din, as many called the musical greeting Ingil and his people offered to Arien every day at her setting. Harps, flutes, pipes but also brass hunting horns, trumpets, cymbals, bells and drums racketed around the camp from the vantage point upon the cliff Ingil had singled out to house his halls, raking at everybody’s nerves for what seemed an endless torture and in fact was a matter of few moments.

With a powerful _crescendo_ and a sustained final chord, the mighty clamour the Vanyar called music floated tauntingly in the air before being carried away by a merciful breeze.

“And they say Manwë loves their music!”

“What does Manwë know about music, one has to wonder?”

“Send them back to whence they came, I say…”

“They say he’s remaining...”

“Not with his instruments, not; that I solemnly vow to Ossë...”

Círdan cast a vague smile at Finarfin, disregarding the disrespectful, almost blasphemous critics that reached their ears as they walked the busy camp.

“He says that’s how Middle-earth sounds to their fëa,” Finarfin offered as means of explanation, throwing in a weak smile to enhance the effect of his unconvincing words.

“Why am I not surprised?” Círdan answered politely, with evil innocence.

“I have heard them play for all my life, and they _do_ _make_ wonderful music…” Finarfin insisted blandly.

“I am sure they do,“ Círdan said placatingly. “I’ve been told that you offered the wine for tonight’s celebrations, that was most generous from your part… or you needed to make room in your ships, my lord?”

“That, too,“ Finarfin acknowledged with a chuckle. “We are making room for dried supplies and fresh water. We’re returning in greater numbers…”

“And when do you expect to depart?” Círdan asked, pretending to be exquisitely unconcerned by the king’s answer.

“I know not, Lord Círdan,” Finarfin said in a low voice, as he grabbed the Shipwright’s arm and guided him to a less crowded area of the camp, away from prying ears. “We are almost done with identifying those who may have relatives in Valinor and the gathering of supplies marches well, and will march even better with the news that you brought… but now I am worried that Olvárin’s too engaged with helping build the fleet of the Edain…and his mariners, as you may have noticed, seem unwilling to embark right now, or in the immediate future, not that I fault them,” he added thoughtfully.

Círdan had to agree. After sun-rounds on board, he was sure even the most seasoned sailor might show signs of rejecting Ossë’s songs. Proof of it was the exasperating fact that Olvárin’s crews had invaded the camp and had refused to return to their ships even for the night.

“And then, Ingil…”

“Ah, Ingil,” Círdan nodded with a knowing smile, as one who’s keeping an amusing secret.

“Yes… you see, I cannot think of what King Ingwë might say… were I to leave his son and heir behind….”

“Well, he is old enough, isn’t he?” Círdan asked, pretending ignorance. “If he feels he is needed here…” He was grateful to Finarfin for having taken him to a secluded corner of the camp, for had any of his people heard him say those words he might have found himself in serious trouble.

The efficient, logical, perfect prince of the Vanyar had managed to exasperate all camp almost to the point of rebellion, as he and his people had begun mingling with deathly accuracy in almost every activity, learning quickly and then offering improvements to the way the Wood elves cut the trees, the Teleri carried the wood to the shipyards, the Noldor forged tools and built houses and so on. Their daily blare had become a matter of small talk and shared aggravation that was short of causing a steady alliance against him to form, if Erestor’s information was accurate -it always was.

“My mother would never forgive me…” The troubled king sighed. “But I worry for Ereinion, above all... It seems he doesn’t count with a firm support…or much respect from those he’s supposed to govern…do you think he’ll manage to reunite all elves and have a steady rule?”

“He was acknowledged as High King of the Noldor in exile even before news of Turgon’s fall arrived. Later, the peoples of Sirion, survivors from Nargothrond and Gondolin, and those from Doriath who chose to settle down there with Elwing, bowed to him through their lord, Eärendil son of Idril in maters of common interest. I pledged my allegiance to him and defer to his judgement and authority in matters of defence and general well-being of all the Quendi… Middle-earth is not Valinor, as you may have noticed…”

“What about the Sindar? The Wood elves?”

Círdan did not want to have this conversation now, and he was losing his thin patience. “Why don’t you ask your daughter’s husband, Lord Finarfin? Many would follow if he were to set an example, or at least make his position clear.” he pointed out. With a curt nod he turned and almost ran away from the puzzled king before Ingil caught up with them.

“Cousin! Have you heard about tonight’s celebrations? Olvárin says it is much like the festivals the Teleri hold by the shores of Alqualondë... do you think I should offer my musicians to Círdan?”

“I don’t think so, Ingil,” Finarfin grunted, his kind disposition strained to unthinkable limits. “In fact I think you should tie and gag your musicians, pack them in one of our ships and sail away to Valinor to herald our return!” he snapped, taking his leave from his astonished cousin and walking in search of his daughter and her stiff-necked husband.

*****

The guard posted before Ereinion’s tent nodded courteously to Celeborn and kept his place, since the Sindarin lord was one of those few who had free access to the king at any time of the day or night. Celeborn could not help feeling that he did not deserve such display of trust after that day’s conversation, but it seemed that the privilege had not been revoked.

“Ereinion?”

“Lord Celeborn…”

Celeborn turned his head to discover the king sitting on a low stool before his cot, whetting his long sword under the steady light of one of those Fëanorian lamps. His shield and spear where nowhere in sight, though.

Celeborn bowed slightly before sitting down on one of the chests.

“I… brought you the maps and the notes I composed after our meeting with the Dwarf,” he offered softly.

The sharp sound of stone against steel kept on for a moment and then stopped abruptly.

“You truly think me that callow, don’t you?” the king asked evenly, barely raising his eyes to meet his guest’s.

Celeborn was caught by surprise, but somehow he felt he owed honesty to the young king.

“I think...” he began carefully, “that… I may have trouble seeing you as a grown-up and fully in charge king, yes,“ he said with some effort. “I believe I still see you as the stubborn child I once met in the Havens…” he added more easily.

That made the trick, and the ghost of a mischievous smile glinted briefly in the serious face. “That wasn’t a very fortunate first meeting,” the king acknowledged calmly, “on both parts,” he added, shaking his head as the memories hit him. “But more than a hundred sun-rounds have passed since then,” he observed softly, resuming his task.

Celeborn nodded silently and waited patiently.

“Lord Gundaghâl came to talk to me that very same evening,” Ereinion kept on after a short pause in which he studied carefully the blade of his plain sword. “He told me what you had talked about, drafted the maps for me and offered an unsolicited piece of advice that, unfortunately, turned out to be only too accurate,” he sighed thoughtfully.

“It wasn’t my intention to slight you or to erase your authority or the trust of your people,” Celeborn offered seriously. “I just did what seemed right at the moment, I just thought that Oropher wanted time to dwell upon that information…”

“So that he could come and share it with me, of course,” the sarcasm tone in the younger elf’s voice was unmistakable, but Celeborn forced himself to accept it as well-deserved. He should have realized that by himself.

“He won’t be departing anytime soon,” Celeborn considered that he could offer that piece of information safely, “and he could be persuaded to overcome his dislike of the dwarves, and offer his cooperation, both to you and to them, I would say…if it is for his people’s interest…I mean, the dwarves will surely be engaged in helping build the new city for quite a long time…”

“I sorely doubt that.”

“Give him some credit!” Celeborn was tiring of suspicion and resentment between those two. “Oropher may yet learn to overcome his misgivings regarding Naugrim!”

“Much as you have overcome yours towards the Noldor, despite having married one of us?” the venomous retort came out as a harsh spat that surprised the king himself. He apologized quickly. A heavy silence fell between them as Celeborn waved away the king’s excuses.

“Anyway, we will never know,” Ereinion shrugged at last, putting aside his sword and the whetting stone. “What I meant is that Lord Gundaghâl’s people won’t be helping build the city,” he added softly.

That caught Celeborn by surprise. “But, how... what, I mean, why? He seems to be very interested, and I thought…”

“I cannot pay for their skill, Lord Celeborn,” the king said levelly, stretching his long limbs and shrugging as if in apology. “I am no Finrod Felagund, and it wouldn’t be wise to become heavily indebted at this point...We’ll manage ourselves, anyway,” he added with forced enthusiasm, standing up in a swift, nimble motion. ”It’ll take us more time, but we’ll eventually come to the same end, I am fully confident in our skills,” he said with a hopeful smile that almost broke Celeborn’s heart.

“Now, if you let me…I’d like to find something clean to dress for tonight…”

“Oh I...I’m sorry,” Celeborn stood up hurriedly, as he suddenly realized that he was most probably sitting upon the king’s wardrobe. “I’ll see you tonight, then…” he added, taking his leave with a dignified pace as he fought mixed feelings of respect and suspicion towards the king he had not yet acknowledged as his.

****

“The designs for the new fleet of the edain...”

“The route to Valinor...”

“A secret plan to have that noisome Vanyar sent back to where he belongs with all his precious warriors…”

“Tonight’s fare...”

“No need of large parchments, I can tell you that, seafood and wine!”

Erestor and Elrond could hardly contain their laughter as they heard a group of elves discussing the contents of their infamous parchment before Elrond’s tent. Wagers had been placed around the camp regarding the contents of that roll of parchment they continued to carry around openly but with great shows of secrecy. At this point they were both sure that Oropher was losing sleep over it.

“And now, the last touch,” Erestor winked, as Elrond opened the flap for him to exit the tent.

“Lord Gundaghâl!“ he called, seeing the Dwarf-lord walk out from his own tent, flanked by a smug Celebrimbor. “A word with you, if you are so kind!” Erestor said, waving at Elrond to bring the -by that time tattered- roll of parchment. “You, too, Lord Celebrimbor, your opinion shall be of the greatest interest!” he added, as they joined both lords in the midst of the camp and spread the mysterious parchment carefully.

Unnoticed, Celeborn hurriedly stepped back to find shelter behind a tent.

**TBC**


	9. Night Fires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Celeborn uncovers a plot or two, the Peredhil share their love for nature, Galadriel and Celebrimbor hold a serious conversation, a dwarf catches fire and the Lord of Waters pays his respects to Ingil Ingwion.

_Midsummer's Eve, before the festival._

The seabird hovered over camp, executing daring loops, showing off her glistening feathers and her flying abilities, soaring high and then dipping recklessly down, nose first, until she frightened unsuspecting elves by grazing their heads or even their faces with her down feathers, before regaining height with a powerful flap of her wide wings.

She chose her targets carefully, though.

Experience had taught her that silver-feathered elves were usually good-humoured and kind, and would laugh at her antics. Black-feathered ones, though, would either try to turn her into their next meal, or shrill and wave angrily at her.

Golden ones, on the other side… _ah!_ she thought wistfully, gliding across the summer sky, overseeing the camp in search of another prey. There were golden ones and her Golden One, the one she expected to see every day at sunset, as he lifted his featherless wings and started making those beautiful sounds that had enthralled her since the very first time.

He was the reason why she cruised the camp every evening, returning early from high seas and even humbling herself to plain pillaging, as a vulgar gannet or other lesser people, in order to snatch a present worth of her chosen one.

However, she would never forgo a good chance for baiting a promising victim, and the silver-feathered one half-crouching behind one of the canvas trees the elves sheltered in at night offered a challenging target, too good to be missed. Feeling daring, she scanned the area carefully and decided to dip in and buzz under his legs, a first–time attempt at what had once almost cost one of her fellow fledglings his life when the elf happened to be standing too close to a stone.

Unfortunately, her elf straightened up and resumed walking before she could coordinate her exercise, and she hardly managed to avoid hitting him –or the ground- with a nervous flap of her wings. She tried to regain her dignity upon a wooden pole, shrieking angrily, still shaking and with her feathers in complete state of disarray, while the silver-feathered elf advanced a few paces, only to find shelter again behind another canvas tree.

This behaviour piqued the bird’s curiosity. Was he stalking some dainty she could snatch and offer to her beloved? She observed the elf carefully, studying his apparently aimless movements, following his hopping from canvas shelter to canvas shelter with short flights from pole to pole.

They were approaching a part of the camp she did not like, a place where many black-feathered elves lived in smoke-producing, small-sized stone mounds and where forest birds became less than welcoming of their sea cousins. There were boundaries not even a daring, wild, young seabird should cross, not when there was a golden love waiting for her voice to answer his patient, daily courtship.

An unexpected noise made her turn her head sharply, her amber eyes widening in surprise. The deep song of the wooden quays welcoming the fishing boats was something she did not anticipate hearing so early. Fishing boats sailed off well before dawn and returned with their fresh loads as the sun climbed the sky; that was how things went.

She hesitated for a moment.

The elf had reached one of those small stone mounds and was now leaning upon it, as if listening.

She made her mind in a split second, crouched slightly and then surged forward and upwards, spreading her mighty wings. In two powerful flaps she reached the stone building.

Her target was almost flat against it and she lost no time, crowning him with a generous dropping before gaining height and flying towards the harbour.

A freshly caught sardine swooped up from the boats recently arrived would be an extraordinary present. Maybe today her Golden One would eventually approach her after their singing.

***

As the conversation ended and the three elves and the dwarf parted ways, the blasted parchment conveniently rolled up and safely tucked under Elrond’s arm, Celeborn was hit by a paralysing doubt; should he follow Elrond and Erestor, and obtain the accursed parchment by force, or rather pursue the dwarf lord and the doomed Noldorin smith and try to find out what they were plotting?

Both activities were wholly unbecoming, so in the end he decided that he would feel less embarrassed standing trial for stalking the enemy than being charged for attacking kin and friends.

He hunted his prey carefully, crouching behind tents as Dwarf-lord and Noldorin smith stopped frequently to discuss a finer point. He followed them into the Fëanorian side of camp without flinching, set on discovering what they were hiding under Celebrimbor’s tightly held cloak and behind their conspiring smiles and suspicious winks.

They entered a huge stone workshop near the limit of the forest, and he stealthily approached its back wall, circling it slowly in search of a window or a small opening from which to peer inside. The door opened suddenly, and he flattened himself against the wall.

He almost froze, then, as he heard his wife’s musical voice.

“Never thought I would said that, but this time you’ve been truly kind, Celebrimbor,” she was saying. “I’m proud of you… and very grateful, too,” she added in a huskier voice that made Celeborn cringe.

“My pleasure, as always, is to please you, my dearest cousin,” the Fëanorian answered in his rich, suggestive voice. Celeborn clenched his fists at his insolence.

“And you do it very well, I must say. Not a word about it, though,” she warned. Throwing her cloak around her slender shoulders she drifted away at a hurried pace while Celeborn crouched behind the forge.

Celeborn was still fighting his anger, and the urge to bang his head against the stone, when a heavy hand fell upon his shoulder and made him turn.

“Well, well, well,” the hated voice said amusedly, “look what we’ve got here! We did not expect you, Lord Celeborn! Please do come in and join us in our little project...” he said in a voice that wasn’t entirely menacing but not wholly reassuring.

That iron fist, hardened by ages of hammer wielding, pushed him effortlessly toward the open door.

“You’ll surely want to wash before explaining yourself, though,“ the fëanorian added with his languid scorn and an exquisite scowl, waving his hand as if trying to get rid of some disgusting substance while he pushed Celeborn inside his forge, not too kindly, and bolted the door.

*****

“That’s all, my friends, thanks again, I believe we’re improving each passing day! Please enjoy and learn as much as you can. I’ve been told that Círdan’s people shall play tonight!” Ingil bowed to the group of warriors that joined him dutifully in their music practice every day at sunset.

“Shouldn’t we do something about prince Olvárin and his people?“

“What do you mean, Lindalewë?” Ingil asked curiously as they carefully gathered and packed their instruments, which were kept aboard. They had taken to carry them back instead of inside a hollow oak trunk that stood at the edge of the forest since they had once arrived to find them misteriously scattered away. They had missed sunset that day, and one or two hunting horns were still unaccounted for, so now the Vanyarin musicians took that simple-but tiresome- precaution against forest animals with musical tastes.

“Gag them, for instance, before they feel the need to show their kin how music is played! I, for one, would love to learn those fascinating Middle-earth tunes undisturbed by Telerin scholars ruining the innocence and strangeness of the whole piece with their remarks…”

“Mmm, I’ll speak with Olvárin and try to reach an agreement, I believe you’re right…we should let them express themselves without interference…”

“Everything’s ready, Ingil,” Aldurion, his second in command and best friend stood by his side as the rest of their warriors began descending the hill. “The boats with fresh catches for tonight’s celebrations were mooring as I came up, we can go now and watch them unload the fish…”

As if conjured by Aldurion’s words, or brought along by the grace of Manwë’s winds, a waggling sardine slapped the prince on the face and fell to the ground. Both friends looked at each other, then at the wobbling sardine and, finally, upwards, where there was nothing to be seen except hurrying clouds.

Ingil shrugged. “We better start going down before they finish wharfing…” he said thoughtfully, shaking his head in disbelief and not noticing the trembling, expectant seabird that shrieked at him perched on top of a nearby rock while they went down to meet the Teleri at their small fishing harbour and watch as they unloaded the catches of the day.

***

Círdan stood on top of a dune, overseeing the celebrations taking place on the beach by the Telerin harbour. He was just returned from a long walk around the camp right after the bonfires were kindled, exchanging greetings and stopping by each fire to join in a family gathering, accepting some food or drink and sharing a song or two with his people.

Midyear’s eve festival was a special time for the elves that had once called themselves “Eglain”, -forsaken; a time when they gathered around fires and spent the night by the shores, singing and dancing to honour Ossë and Uinen, enjoying the music of the waves that gave them life, much as they had caused them grief in the years following the bitter parting.

This year, the first they would celebrate in that new land after the War, the bonfires spread through the long beach and even inland, as the Wood elves had learnt to appreciate the custom and had quickly joined in the celebrations.

The Edain, too, had welcomed the idea and were enthusiastically taking part – and being routinely trounced- in every contest, be it of archery, spear-throwing, wrestling, singing, drinking or playing music. Games and competitions were another important part of the celebration, Círdan reminded himself, watching in amusement as Olvárin and Elros raced along the topmasts of two ships, cheerfully encouraged by their respective crews. It seemed that the boisterous son of Eärendil had managed to charm the hot-tempered prince of the Telerin, even after that tasteless prank, and now they seemed to be forming a fast friendship.

Ingil could be seen by another bonfire, playing drums with the rapture and abandon of a true Wood elf, while some of his warriors had joined the musicians by the shores and were gilding the enthralling melodies of the Teleri with their charming voices.

It took these Vanyarin people some time to grasp the concepts, Círdan reflected, but after careful observation and deep meditation, they just gracefully excelled in whatever activity or art their kin from this side of the Belegaer practiced with an easiness that only proved, in the ancient Shipwright’s eyes, that all Quendi were equally deeply atuned to Arda, be it this or the other side of the dividing waters, and had been brought to life by the same voice that had sung the _kelvar_ and _olvar_ into being in the Time before time.

“An extraordinary celebration, Lord Shipwright,” a soft voice complimented him.

Círdan had allowed him approach without acknowledging his presence. Not that the other had been noisy, but the wristbands and anklebands provided by the survivors of Brithombar made the usually soft-footed elves a strangely noisy people for one night. Not even the secretive Wood elves or the ever-composed Celeborn of Doriath had refused to indulge them in their deeply felt tradition.

It had all begun in Balar, when some survivors complained that they missed the familiar murmur of the waves when Ossë’s fingers strummed the stony beaches of Brithombar. A resourceful elf had crafted then those bands, threading smooth, sea-rounded stones and sea shells loosely in a leather string that was fastened to the wrist or ankle. The resulting soughing tune produced by the slightest movement would resemble the soft murmur of the tireless waves singing in the windless beaches of lost Brithombar.

“I am glad that you decided to grace it with your presence, Lord Celeborn,” Círdan nodded with exaggerate courtesy, “humble and lacklustre as the decorations may seem to one used to the splendours of a brighter court...” He smiled at Celeborn’s quizzical look. “Why aren’t you down there, my friend, enjoying the fires and the songs?” the shipwright added with genuine curiosity.

“I am not in the mood.” Celeborn’s sullenness was plain as it was unusual. Círdan sighed inwardly, wondering what perturbed the Sindarin lord’s tipically even temper.

“He seems to be enjoying as if he were one of them…” Celeborn grunted a moment after, nodding towards the closest bonfire, watching as Ereinion joined a bunch of happy Teleri in their merry dances and took turns at jumping over the flames.

It had not been so in the first years, Círdan sighed, remembering his and his household’s puzzlement as the usually dutiful an obedient child had stubbornly refused to come close to the bonfires, and how long it had taken them to find out that the young Noldo loathed the fires because they reminded him of the Bragollach, the battle of the sudden flame that had ended the siege in fire and utter destruction.

“Much as your wife, don’t you agree?” he grinned evilly, watching Galadriel and her father joining in the jolly company. Finarfin had said that Olwë’s people celebrated similar festivals at Alqualondë, and judging by the easiness and enthusiasm with which they had joined in the merrymaking, it was clear he had not exaggerated.

When Ereinion took Galadriel’s hand and led her into what, for a Sinda, would surely be considered an improperly carefree dance, Celeborn could not hold back a groan, much to Círdan’s amusement.

“You should join them, my friend,” he said cheerfully as Celeborn walked away. “This is a night for joy and celebration!” And following his own advice, he started climbing down the knoll to join in his people’s merriment. It was many many turns of the sun since they had had so many reasons for hope and carefree enjoyment, after all.

***

“By your leave,” Celeborn snapped, turning his back on the Shipwright and the festivities and heading for the beckoning trees at the same moment in which Oropher, after having routed all his opponents in the archery contest with maddening ease, was obediently following his beautiful wife to the bonfires to join in the revelry.

Celeborn was far from enjoying the festival and, despite what had transpired after his less than friendly encounter with Celebrimbor and the Dwarf-lord, he still harboured a lingering resentment towards his wife and her hidden games.

Finding out that Finarfin had been playing along, too, had not helped make him feel better. In fact, it had served to sharpen his feeling of estrangement.

He walked under the sheltering canopy and sat on a fallen trunk. He felt torn between two worlds, neither of which fully accepted him, were it because of his marriage or because of his own Sindarin ancestry. It wasn’t an unknown feeling, after all.

He cursed silently his ability to see –and understand- the many sides of a same issue. _“You are uncommonly unprejudiced for a sheltered Sinda, Lord Celeborn.”_ Finrod’s baiting words came to his mind. “ _And you are uncommonly unprejudiced for a self-absorbed Noldo, Lord Finrod,”_ he had answered sternly, but with a mischievous glint upon his face. _“Such a rarity,”_ his wise and cheerful friend -turned brother-in-law, had conceded. _“I suppose we should be friends, then…”_

He sat there, concentrating in his breathing, banishing all thought, all feeling of alienation, all resentment, and letting the forest heartbeat take charge of his own pulse, feeling his consciousness fly away with the night breeze and melt into it, allowing all worries to dissolve in the contemplation of that single moment of peace.

He had almost come to terms with the knowledge that he could no more despise the Noldor as a people, as Oropher seemed to pretend, than he could betray his own kin, when a merry voice brought him out of his meditation abruptly.

“Come, brother! This is a nice place to commune with nature!”

Celeborn was pleased to recognize the voices of the Peredhil entering the nearest clearing. The fact that Elwing’s children would leave a crowded, boisterous party to find refuge among the trees filled him with satisfaction and tenderness towards that distant kin he had been reluctant to wholly embrace as such.

He had got up and was readying to come out of his sheltered refuge to share the forest’s blessing with them when an unmistakable sound made it clear that the peredhil’s urgency to _commune with nature_ was not born out of their Sindarin descent, but rather due to the effects of too much wine consumption.

Celeborn stood there, listening to two slightly drunk peredhil exchanging lewd remarks in their tipsy voices as they relieved themselves -and feeling absurdly irritated by their childish behaviour- when the distinct rustle of pebbles betrayed the presence of another elf in that small glade.

“Lord Celeborn...” The soft voice of the young king of the exiles reached him before he turned to meet him.

“You, too, trying to commune with nature?” Celeborn snapped, still angered at his own foolishness.

“What do you…” Ereinion seemed honestly baffled.

Celeborn waved his hand in exasperation. “Will you shut up?” he whispered brusquely, “I’m trying to overhear a conversation!”

“...And he beat me four times in a row, no matter how fast I tried to climb the mast, that Olvárin has mastered the thing...” Elros was saying.

“You two seem to have become good friends, despite your witless trick...”

“Well, you know me, who can resist my charms?” Elros boasted, and then both elves heard the sound of a smack and choked laughter.

“Anyway,” the eldest of Elwing’s sons was saying, “he still believes Ereinion suggested it, and I just gave up trying to dissuade him...”

“Well done!” Elrond giggled, “You can use it to extort Ereinion,” he added brightly, and Celeborn cast a smug smile towards the baffled king, who had sat beside him and was listening with a faintly amused smile upon his face.

“I had not thought of that, Elrond! You’re the scheming one! What am I going to do without you?”

A heavy silence followed, as if both Peredhil had been sobered up by the apparently light comment.

“Why…why did you choose...as... as you did?” Elros voice sounded painfully young and uncertain all of a sudden.

“Why did you?” Elrond snapped. “I would have never thought of leaving you behind…”

“You mean that I am abandoning you? It is you who insists on remaining here, where nobody cares for us, where everybody makes us feel as outcasts and blood traitors! At least I won’t be subjected to an eternity of grudges. Look at them, Elrond! They’re still remonstrating each other for deeds that happened five hundred sun-rounds ago! I want to move on, there is nothing to tie me here, and I thought that you felt the same! How many times did we talk about it?” Now Elros sounded perfectly sober and a bit angry.

“And what would be left for me, then? “ Elros answered softly after a long pause. “There is only one kingdom of men…”

“What have you got here? What shall you become? Squire of a king acknowledged by exactly no one and contested by almost all?” was the brutal answer.

Celeborn smiled amusedly and risked a glance toward his companion. Ereinion had not changed his expression, and was listening intently, apparently unaffected by Elros bluntness.

“At least he cares for us, Elros...”

“Once he stumbled upon us on his way... I know that Maedhros revered his father, but I do not believe he’s even half the elf Fingon was…had he been, he would have searched for us and rescued us…we weren’t chained to a mountain, after all, everybody knew where Maedhros’ people camped…” Elros voice was now hardly a whisper.

Celeborn’s smug smile was dampened by the slightest twitch in the impassive face of the king.

“Anyway, he trusts us, and he truly cares for all the people in camp. Would you rather see me following those haughty Sindarin lords who should be bowing before us and instead shun us and look at us with plain scorn?”

“I would know that you are happy, my brother, whatever it is that you choose to be or do,” was Elros pained answer, “for you have been the only thing that always stayed true in my life, and now I feel that I have failed you… tell me Elrond, what would you be? I can force Lord Celeborn to bow before you and call you king, or make Oropher fashion a crown for you in Celebrimbor’s forge if that’s what you desire, I swear I will, my brother!”

Elrond’s laughter, if somewhat bitter, rang in the clearing. “My dashing, brave and selfless brother. Never doubt that I love you and that I will always remember you, and never think that you have betrayed me. That’s all I want...” he added hoarsely, his voice catching in his throat.

The rustling of fabric as both Peredhil embraced filled the night. Celeborn nursed his bruised ego while Ereinion sat there, unmoving, a pensive look upon his stern face.

“Now, brother, tell me,” Elros insisted, his voice still shaking. “What is it that you would like?”

“I care not for kingdoms or ruling other people’s lives...I am not fit for that,” Elrond answered in his soft voice. “I…at times I just wished I could ride east and get lost… I would look for Maglor,” he added hoarsely, “and maybe I would settle down among those elves who forsook the March. I would forget who I am and whence I came, and marry a beautiful elleth and live in the forest and create a family that would not be swept away by time or fate or war or jewels...” he added with a soft sigh.

“You can do that. You can convince Ereinion to send you East with the Dwarf... You have Oropher convinced that you have been chosen, haven’t you?” Elros let escape a loud laughter and Elrond joined in a bit reluctantly at first.

“We are driving him mad,” Elrond acknowledged with undisguised mirth. “He believes that Ereinion is plotting with the dwarf and that I have secret maps of elven settlements that I will rule on Ereinion’s behalf…” Celeborn tensed at this. “He’s so agitated by the prospect that he has been gathering a following and trying to bully them into departing with him, not that he’s succeeding, anyway, for none is willing to depart to a place nobody knows about, and Oropher is going crazy about those parchments Erestor and I are carrying around!”

The two wretches were rolling in laughter. Ereinion cast a questioning look at a shocked Celeborn.

“I am glad that Erestor is helping you with this,” Elros laughed. “Oropher deserves that, and much more, if only to repay him for how he treats us… he should be bowing to us, as Elu’s heirs…I can convince Ereinion to send you East, if you want me to… and you would be rid of all of them in one stroke!” Elros sounded particularly pleased by his own cunning.

“I don’t know, brother, there’s much to do here… I feel comfortable working with Erestor, and Ereinion is as much an outcast as I am, or almost,” he added thoughtfully. “I believe we could get to understand each other...”

“You are right in that. He is not the worst choice,” Elros conceded with a chuckle. “I only wished we could throw that stiff-necked Celeborn into the joke. I am dying to see him cut to size…”

“Let’s return to the beach, Elros, maybe we can come up with some prank after some more wine…”

“Such talent for scheming...”

The loud voices of the Peredhil were undistinguishable when both elves decided to stand up, studiously avoiding each other’s eyes.

“Let me take care of what we have learned here, Lord Celeborn, I beg of you,” Ereinion sighed in a serious voice.

“I think…” Celeborn began, when a dark, large shape came to stand before them with a soft thump and Celeborn could hardly distinguish the face of Galadhond, the elusive Wood-elf who had reassured Oropher that same day in the house of words. _”He must have been overhearing, too,_ ” he thought with some amusement, _“surely sitting right over their heads...”_

“Good evening, Master Galadhond,” Ereinion was bowing courteously, apparently unperturbed by the sudden appearance.

“I would like to have a word or two with you, King Gil-galad,” the Wood-elf said calmly. “Lord Celeborn might want to return to his wife,” he added in his deep, commanding voice.

Long years spent in Elu’s court had taught Celeborn to recognize power, no matter how deeply veiled it was, so he swallowed his pride and bowed silently, taking the path towards the beach.

*****

“After so many years in Elu’s court, it is to be expected that she would have picked up some manners,” Finarfin complained as he watched his daughter and her half-cousin play a dangerous and wholly unbecoming game that had been favoured by all of Finwë’s grandchildren.

A frazzled Celeborn fought the urge to inform his father-in-law that if she had been that wild after many more years in Finwë’s court, there was little her much shorter stay in Elu's could have done for her manners. Being called the Wise for a reason, he chose to bit back his retort and watch instead.

Finarfin, Erestor and himself were standing a bit apart from their bonfire. Celebrimbor had recently joined in with some torches and had apparently challenged his father’s cousin. Right now, they were juggling around several torches between the two of them, exchanging them with sharp, sure wrist movements and tossing them around with an easiness born out of practice.

It always stung Celeborn to be reminded of how many of his wife’s memories he didn’t share. The cheering crowd caught his attention and he came back from his musings to see his wife tossing around three torches while at the same time conversing with her cousin and bowing gracefully to the onlookers.

“Pity we cannot hear their conversation…” Erestor observed dryly. The look Finarfin gave him expressed exactly what Celeborn was thinking. _“You surely don’t want to hear that conversation, judging by her body language.”_

***

“You know perfectly well that I desire not the kingship,” Galadriel was furious with Celebrimbor for suggesting to Ereinion that she might be after the crown, something she had surmised after hearing her father's account of his conversation with the young king after that eventful and crowded meeting in Ereinion’s tent.

“I would make sure that you would get it, my dear cousin, if it were your heart’s desire... I was only trying to show you how much I care...” Celebrimbor returned two blazing torches with a gentle flicker of his wrist

“And taking the opportunity to harass Ereinion...”

A torch brushed his long hair. She was clearly enraged.

“That was close, cousin,” he smiled. “He deserved it anyway...”

“He is our rightful king...”

“Yes, your father already informed me… mind your temper!” he shouted in warning, as she threw him a torch in a twisted position and he burnt his finger while catching it.

“You’re losing your touch, Celebrimbor, but then, I always beat your father at this...” she smiled tauntingly.

No matter how in love Celebrimbor claimed to be, his Fëanorian pride always answered to the right provocation.

“That is not how I recall it,” he returned the favour with a lopsided grin, sending a torch almost out of her reach. As she strained to catch it, she almost lost two more. “Well done,” Celebrimbor said approvingly, "you never fail to amaze me, Artanis...”

“Galadriel.”

“Whatever. I would bow before you night after night for years uncounted…”

“You will bow to him.”

“Right after you, dearest cousin… and after your exquisite husband, of course… the day I see him bow to a Noldorin king I shall forgive him for having married you!” Celebrimbor winked gleefully and then he had to duck to avoid a torch viciously aimed at his fair face.

An outraged cry from behind him told him that the torch had found another target, and he turned to see a wall of bodies between him and their victim, when another torch he was supposed to be catching by now landed right before his feet.

“Watch out, you fool!” Galadriel was by his side, breathing raggedly. “What happened?” she asked, trying to find a way among the many helping hands hovering above a cursing, flaming and fuming protuberance upon the ground.

“A dwarf’s on fire,” a flushed elf turned to inform them with undisguised mirth. She failed to hold back an amused chuckle at the dismayed look upon Celebrimbor’s face as he tried to make a way towards the hurting dwarf, only to discover that it was lord Gundaghâl himself who had caught fire to his precious beard.

***

“And that is why we forbade them to play that game,” Finarfin was saying calmly, watching the scene from their vantage point.

“Not that you succeeded in any way, apparently,” Erestor pointed out innocently. Celeborn chuckled despite himself at Finarfin’s incensed look. Honest as Finrod had been, though, the king had to concede the point.

“You have raised a fine king, master Erestor, one who honours his bloodline as much as his upbringing,” a deep voice said behind them. The three turned around to discover the mysterious Wood elf. Erestor bowed deeply before him, much to Celeborn’s utter amazement.

“I am honoured that you think so, Master Galadhond,” he said respectfully.

“I only wished you had put the same interest in others who do carry the blood of our kin in their veins,” the tall Wood elf added softly. Celeborn had the pleasure to see the unflappable Nandorin counsellor losing his footing for once.

“I…I…” Erestor stumbled upon words, clearly mortified, but the Wood elf lifted a forbidding hand.

“I understand that the task is different,” he added in a lower voice, “but I would have expected that a child of Elu’s line would not indulge in such activities against his own kin, and encouraged by one who knew and respected his sires…”

“I am…most ashamed…”

“It is not your fault alone, master Erestor,” the elf said kindly. “But we are already bereft of one, and I wouldn’t see the other completely lost to his people…”

“As you command, Hîrdawar,” Erestor answered humbly. Celeborn felt his jaw fall.

 _“Hîrdawar?”_ he repeated aloud, incredulity plain upon his voice. It could not be possible, that the mythical “lord of the forest”, the elusive, legendary figure to whose authority all the scattered, unruly and elusive wood elves bowed in unchallenged obedience and respect was living among them in that camp!

“I am told that you –and your lady wife- have been of the greatest help to our people in Nenuial, Lord Celeborn, and I’m deeply grateful to both of you for that.” The Wood elf turned to him with an amused look upon his deep eyes. Celeborn could only nod his assent, too stunned to find words, and deeply enthralled by the power in that voice, one of the first that had been heard in Middle-earth when the firstborns awoke in Cuiviénen under the stars.

“I believe that you’ll be more useful here for a time, though,” he kept on softly, in a kind way, as if explaining a difficult task to a small child, “and maybe some other can assume your chores there…” he suggested. “I remember your father well, lord Arafinwë. He must be proud of his line,” he added, nodding gracefully to Finarfin and walking away.

*****

“Elros, Elrond, walk with me.” Ereinion’s stern, firm voice snapped over the heads of those sitting by Círdan’s fire. Celeborn looked up and tried to spy the expression in the young king’s face as the two Peredhil tiredly stood up and trailed behind him.

The night was wearing old. The beach was strangely calm in that quiet hour before daybreak. It actually looked as a battlefield after a long fought clash, Celeborn thought, watching the dying bonfires and the heaps of bodies cuddling up against the soft breeze or simply resting after a long night of revelry. The reddish glimmer of dawn added a bloodied tinge to the eerie quiet of sunrise, and even the waves seemed to be holding their breath in that stillness that precedes the changing of tide.

Celeborn looked around and had to smile at the tired but happy looks upon the faces of the strange company assembled around Círdan’s bonfire.

Olvárin stretched comfortably, humming contentedly and completely unperturbed by -or choosing to ignore - the fact that he was sharing the fire with Celebrimbor, who sat across him and was busy studying his dagger while the dwarf-lord snored peacefully next to him, his magnificent beard reduced in some places to charred patches of curling hair. Galadriel rested in her adar’s embrace, their golden heads bent together in hushed conversation, although, from time to time, a peal of laughter would escape any of them. Círdan carved a piece of driftwood, sitting beside Oropher and his wife, who were exchanging tender glances and furtive caresses, while Erestor poked aimlessly at the dying fire with a pensive look on his face.

 _He might as well worry,_ Celeborn thought grimly, still fighting the urge to tell Oropher about the Nandorin counsellor’s conspiracy.

“My lords and ladies…” a gleeful voice brought them all from contemplation. They looked up to see Ereinion’s wide smile as he wielded a wooden dipper. The Peredhil stood right behind him, holding what looked to be a heavy caludron between them, and showing identic puzzled looks upon their tired faces.

“As you may know, the youngest members of the Telerin families are traditionally charged with supplying the morning meal to guests at Midyear’s dawn,” Ereinion kept on cheerfully. “ This year I have had at last some help with this most cumbersome task,” he added with a mischievous wink, taking a wooden bowl from a pile Elros held and filling it with a tasty broth from the huge cauldron that Elrond held now.

“Who will be first?” he asked, failing to conceal his amusement as he watched Oropher squirm and try to become invisible.

“My lady,” the king bowed courteously to Oropher’s wife. Celeborn had to smile seeing Oropher fighting to keep his composure as she smiled at the Noldo and accepted bowl and spoon with a beautiful smile. “Be at ease, Lord Oropher,“ Ereinion added conversationally, “we keep the poisoned broth in separate cauldrons,” he joked, offering him his fill with a mischievous smile and getting a raucous laughter from the rest of the company. The three youngsters completed their task in good spirits and with a quick hand.

“You shared our bonfire and you became a part of our family”, Círdan pronounced fondly once Ereinion poured a bowl for himself and bowed slightly to him. “May you never lack a fire in your hearths and in your hearts from this day on...” the shipwright added, ending the heartfelt blessing his people offered to those who shared their bonfire on Midyear’s Eve.

Celeborn could tell that the Peredhil were moved by that display. He mentally bowed to Ereinion for that simple but effective way of showing the grieving half-elves that they did belong into that mottled, troubled, quarrelsome but well-intentioned family.

He was savouring the strong, hearty broth made out of last evening’s catches when a soft melody caught his ear. It was as if a silvery rain was falling in a windless morning and its pearly drops were endlessly rolling through a canopy of evergreen leaves. They all stood up, enthralled by those otherworldly voices that conjured visions of almost forgotten happiness in the minds of those listening.

Ingil and his people were standing by the sea, greeting the sun as they used to every morning upon the white towers of Valmar, singing to the fae of every elf standing on that forgotten shore and joining their voices with the heartbeat of Arda in promise of a day when every thing would finally be as it had been appointed when the world was young in the mind of the One.

Celeborn could not tell how much time they had stood there, transfixed, as the magic of the song slowly dissolved in Arien’s golden mists, when he first heard it.

It was like a distant rolling, the sound of a mighty tempest and the cries of unfamiliar seabirds. As it approached and grew, it sang with the voices of unknown winds and foamy waves, and rustling reeds and stony cliffs, in a powerful roar that made them all hold their breath.

And then, out of that otherworldly din, a powerful note, deep, piercing, unforgettable and undeniable, speared through the faer of those standing upon the white sands, filling them with yearning and hope, with longing and strength, and with an almost overwhelming sense of peace.

“Lord Ulmo himself,” Celeborn heard Olvárin whisper, wonder plain in his voice, as an impressive, tall, white wave rose before Ingil and stood there, unmoving. The Vanyarin prince bowed deeply with his right hand to his heart and Arien finally touched the summer sky.

*****

“A most impressive display,” Ereinion groaned to nobody in particular, pouring himself another cupful of broth. “But it ruined the end of the celebration.”

A sense of awe had overwhelmed the camp. Ereinion was sure that he could knock on the wall of silence that encircled them since the sound of Ulmo’s horns had died away.

Around him everybody had gathered in small groups or had simply disappeared, and he felt suddenly alone and bereft, the echo of that powerful music still nagging at his fae. He cast wild glances around, only to discover that Círdan was by the shore with Ingil, who had a seabird perched upon his golden head, and Olvárin; Erestor and the Peredhil were nowhere in sight.

“ _If that’s how Valinor sounds,“_ he thought wearily, putting aside the empty bowl and folding up his cloak into a makeshift pillow, _“I am sure that tomorrow we will have crowds lining up to find passage to Eressëa,”_ he sighed, fighting his disappointment. He could not blame those departing, but, deep in his heart, he could not discard the feeling that their departure meant that they did not trust him enough to remain.

“ _I must remember to tell Finarfin that…”_ He never managed to end his thought, though, for as soon as he laid his head on his cloak, Estë the Gentle spread her mantle over the worried king and led him along the path of untroubled dreams.

**TBC**


	10. Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we have a glimpse of Oropher’s family life, Finarfin receives a gift and Ereinion calls a proper council.

**_Three weeks after Midyear’s festival._ **

Sîriel frowned, seeing the state of disarray in their flet.

She had left very early in the morning to join her hunting patrol, leaving her husband and son still fast asleep. Now, they were nowhere in sight and their daily chores showed signs of having been taken care of in a less than meticulous way. She shook her head ruefully, straigthening a rug and folding up some discarded blankets and a spare tunic.

She placed her hunt –three young rabbits- on the makeshift table and put away the honey pot with an indulgent shake of her head.

Beside the pot she would use to prepare their meal she found a small army of roots, herbs and their daily fill of vegetables ordered by size and colour, as it was her husband’s wont.

It was his wont, too, to forget that those little things had to be carefully washed -to put away the remnants of soil- before being cooked. She shook her head in exasperated disbelief. No matter how many years would pass, there were things Oropher simply refused to remember.

He would never forget, though, to pick up some flowers and place them in the hollowed branch filled with water that she kept on her precarious nightstand, she had to admit with a fond smile, reading the love in his actions as clearly as she read it in his deep eyes.

Once she had bathed and got rid of the hunt’s grime, she cooked the rabbits with the precious herbs and checked their water supply. Then, she picked one of the flowers, fastened it to her dark hair and went to meet her husband and son in the training grounds, where they usually engaged in some sparring after their day’s work with the Edain’s foresters was finished.

She smiled as she approached the place, seeing neighbours sitting on the fence watching in amusement as Oropher taught their son, an already accomplished archer, the foreign art of sword fighting, something most Wood elves saw as another of the Sindarin lord’s eccentricities.

True as he was in his deep love of the ways of the Wood-elves, and firmly convinced that a forest granted the most natural and free environment for elves to lead their life as Eru had intended for them, Oropher was, and would remain above all, a true Sindarin lord to the very bone, his wife thought with fondness, watching father and son dance in the arena.

As such, he could not get rid of his organizational and fighting skills, his authoritarian streak, developed as one of Elu’s march captains and chief hunters, and his passionate defence of his people and those he considered under his protection. These traits, most often than not, led him to argue fiercely against anyone he considered might pose a threat to their well-being.

She waved to friends and relatives as she sat upon the fence, enjoying the sight of the two golden-haired elves indulging with plain joy in the last bouts of sparring. Their movements were elegant and coordinate as they drew precise sweeps with their blades, eliciting steely songs from them.

Engrossed in the contemplation of that new form of dance, she almost missed a lone, dark-haired elf standing apart from the rest, leaning on the fence and following the lesson with an unmistakable air of longing on his stern face.

Launching a sudden and striking series of thrusts, Oropher forced their son to retreat towards the fence. With a final swept, no doubt aimed at impressing the audience, he finally disarmed the youngster and patted him with a fond smile.

“You are improving each day, my son!” he proclaimed loudly, and then walked with proud strides toward the bucket of water to refresh himself, while their son picked up his sword and greeted briefly the lonesome dark-haired elf standing by the fence right in front of them.

 _The king of the exiles!_ She suddenly recognized the dark plaits and fine features, and, above all, understood the reason for her husband’s haughty behaviour. She sighed mentally as he stripped off his tunic and poured water over his head, letting it roll down his powerful chest. Reading the challenge in his display, she readied to intervene when the scene about to unfold became too tense.

For now, Lord Ereinion was holding the sword Oropher had offered to their son some weeks ago with a deft hand and an appreciative look on his face, while her son beamed proudly. Oropher joined them then, walking in deliberately slow strides and crossing his arms across his bare chest in provocation, giving the Noldo with what Sîriel playfully dubbed as his _Sindarin court_ look.

When their body language began to change subtly, she descended from the fence and started walking towards them at the same time their son, in an unexpected display of diplomatic skill, retreated from the conversation and walked towards the water bucket, where he waited for her to join him.

“…Your people?” she heard the Noldo say with barely contained amusement as she greeted her so with a quick kiss. “You mean those who gather around you in the _Bar-en-Athrabeth_ and let you rant endlessly, and then go back to work and help settling down while you sit here, sulking and doing nothing?”

She didn’t hear Oropher’s retort, though, for she had turned her attention to her son, who was rolling his eyes, too, at the only too foreseeable outcome of that conversation.

“How was your day?” she asked him, as he drank greedily and refreshed himself as his father had done, except that he kept his tunic on, she noticed, amused by her child’s modesty -or her husband’s lack thereof.

“Not bad. Some of the edain are truly interested in forestry. I believe they could learn... if only they had the time,” he shrugged in mild contempt.

“It is not their fault, son, just make sure they learn the importance of caring for the trees, and they shall take advantage of it...” she admonished. “Come, let’s put an end to that conversation before your adar hurts the king’s pride…or does something worse,” she smiled, noticing with regret that she could no longer put a protective arm across her tall son’s shoulders.

“I have repeatedly dismissed your messengers and your accursed parchments. I am not interested in your city-building games or in your councils. And be warned that I won’t allow my people to be despoiled again, you _Noldolordling_ …” Oropher’s voice was low and menacing as they approached.

Sîriel sighed, searching for the wisest course of action.

“And you are so sure that I shall be the one who will despoil them…?” The Noldo’s voice held a tinge of exasperation and incredulity. “Look around you, Oropher. There is not a single elf in this camp that has not lost a home, a family, a loved one. We are all bereft, we are all survivors, and we are all Quendi. I will be the happiest elf in camp when I see you move eastwards, but while you remain here I was counting that you would care for the fates of those who share your plights, as it is said that you used to do when you were in Thingol’s court…” he added evenly.

They locked eyes for a moment, and then Oropher extended his long hand and snatched the parchments Ereinion held before him with a brisk movement.

“Lord Ereinion!” Sîriel took advantage of the momentary respite to chime in and put an end to the conversation. “It is a pleasure to see you in our side of the camp,” she smiled.

“My lady,” the courteous Noldo bowed to her and returned her sincere welcome smile.

“We were about to have our meal, Lord Ereinion, would you care to join us?” she asked playfully, enjoying the outraged look on her husband’s face. “We, too, keep the poisoned meals in separate bowls,” she prodded with a mischievous grin.

It seemed as if the Noldo considered accepting for a brief moment, but he finally declined with a bashful smile. “I am most grateful, Lady Sîriel, but I fear I still have some errands to run before the day is done…please accept my apologies for taking advantage of your family time and forcing…political issues upon…you all,” he added vaguely, nodding towards Thranduil, who remained a few steps apart, watching in interest.

“A father has nothing to hide from his son.” Oropher chimed in. “But then, how would you know,“ he added brutally.

There was an awkward silence as the king swallowed the insult. Sîriel suddenly remembered having heard that the Noldo had been raised by Círdan.

“I will see you tomorrow at the council, then,” Ereinion said in a steady voice, fixing Oropher in his grey gaze.

“You may yet rue it...” Oropher warned him.

“I’ll take the risk,” the king retorted with a forced smile. “That’s a mighty left-handed sweep you have there, Thranduil,” he added with a friendly smile. “Keep practicing!” He bowed briefly to Sîriel then and took his leave at a brisk pace.

“That was uncalled-for cruelty,” Sîriel softly reprimanded her husband. “And a bad example,” she added, looking pointedly towards their son.

Oropher drew in a deep breath and finally nodded. “You may be right, my lady. I shall apologize conveniently and undertake whatever punishment _you_ see fit to deliver,” he ended with a mischievous smile, putting one of his strong arms across her shoulders and steering his family towards their flet.

****

To the casual observer, the three elves standing at the easternmost end of the fishers’ quay offered a glorious sight. Tall and straight, they stood still looking west, as the last rays of Arien gilded their golden and silvery heads. They were the children of the kings of the elves of Aman, powerful and blessed among the Firstborn and beloved by the Valar.

To the three irreverent young Telerin elves spying on them from behind of one of the warehouses used for the unloading, though, they looked like irresistible targets for some mischief.

“What do you think they are talking about?” one asked.

“Most probably they are counting the days until they leave these forsaken shores and return to their blessed lands...”

“Mmm, rumour has it that at least one of them is remaining, and Olwë’s son is too engaged now with the Edain’s shipbuilding to be thinking about departing...”

“Well, at least the tall one gave up with that unbearable music of his...it is no wonder that they packed him to this side of the Waters, if he was bothering the Valar with such din…”

“That was their rendition of how Middle-earth sounded to their faer,” a fourth one, a dark-haired Noldo who had just joined them, explained tiredly. “Not their current music. Didn’t you hear them on midyear’s festival? Ulmo himself came to greet them!”

“Or tell them to shut up? Maybe they expect the Lord of Waters to show up again?” one of his Telerin friends suggested, while the two others chuckled in unrestrained mirth.

“They seem to be expecting something, we cannot disappoint them,” another offered, pointing at a nearby warehouse. “I think that roof would suit our purpose perfectly, what say you, _Eglanion_? Are you in?” the Telerin elf addressed the young king by the name that had been used as a mild insult during his childhood and that had later become just a familiar joke among his closest friends.

After a long, annoying day full of unpleasant meetings and petty chores, Ereinion needed some well-earned distraction. He had looked for Círdan or Erestor to share his evening meal with, but neither had been available. Strolling along the quay, he had run into that carefree lot of childhood friends and had ended up stalking his allies and his own High King like a mischievous elfling.

“I’m in,” he said resolutely, “just be careful not to let them know that I’m with you. It would be most… unbecoming…” he added warningly.

“Of course, my lord!” his friends bowed with undisguised hilarity. The four elves then walked with all stealth to the warehouse that stood closest to the water and to the left of the unsuspecting royals.

***

“You cannot be speaking seriously, Olvárin!” Finarfin almost whined, looking pleadingly at his brother-in-law. “Your place is in Aman, with your father and your people!”

“I am not so sure, brother,” Olvárin answered seriously, with a pained look upon his blue eyes. ”I am beginning to think that I am of more use here. The Edain are fast learners but they need much instruction, and I cannot abandon them now, Arafinwë, I was Valar-sent aid for them! “

“For Eru’s sake!” Finarfin was close to despair, “Olvárin, think of what your father would say! And your wife?”

“You shall let me know, brother,” Olvárin answered, holding back an amused grin, “I wouldn’t want be in your place for anything, though,” he added thoughtfully.

“Olvárin,” Finarfin tried another tactic, “I cannot go back with your ships, just guess what your people would think, were I to disembark in Alqualondë with no Teleri prince or crew on board!”

“You are right, would not look good…I shall appoint some mariners to sail you home, my brother, and I shall write a message to my…to your father-in-law, explaining my delay...and your taking command over my fleet,” he added seriously, ignoring Finarfin dismayed look.

“Olvárin…”

“It is my decision, Arafinwë, stop harassing me, I don’t see you pestering Ingil for remaining, and I would rather fear High King Ingwë’s wrath if I were you…

Finarfin breathed in deeply and looked seriously from his brother-in-law to his cousin. “Please, my friends, reconsider your choices. It is your duty to return to your people and to your families. Think of the grief you would be causing to those who are awaiting your return,” he added softly. He looked at their set faces searchingly and then threw his hands up in surrender and walked away.

“He is close to despair,” Ingil observed softly, after Finarfin left.

“Yes he is, isn’t he?” Olvárin answered gleefully.

“Don’t you think this is going too far, though?” Ingil worried.

“Not yet! I enjoy seeing him so vexed. He is great fun to watch when he frets!”

“I don’t think the Valar would approve, Olvárin.”

“You are angry because Ulmo made you stop that horrible din!”

“That is not true!

“Isn’t it? Then why haven’t you played that atrocious tune since midyear’s dawn? What did Ulmo tell you?”

“That is none of your business.” Suddenly, Ingil seemed to be fretting, too. “I insist that we should tell Finarfin the truth...”

****

Ereinion realized that he had fallen for the oldest trick in the book, like the most innocent novice, as soon as he found himself flying down to the cold waters of the harbour and too late to stop himself, while his friends doubled up in laughter from the safety of the warehouse’s roof and pointed at him in unrestrained glee.

He hardly had time to raise his fist towards them before hitting the water with a loud splash and floundering right before the two princes with what he expected would be a remarkable effect.

****

“…And I disagree. It was you who started all this, after all! You will not spoil my amusement, Ingil, I warn you!”

“It’s not my fault that you decided to stay aboard climbing masts for so many sun-rounds,” there was unconcealed mockery in the Vanyarin prince’s voice now.

“At least I wasn’t scolded by Ulmo for being an awful musician… he did care enough to come all the way from Valinor to berate you publicly…”

“He did not...”

“Oh, yes he did…”

An unexpected surge of cold water washed over the two unsuspecting elves, following a loud splash in the deep waters below them and cutting Ingil’s retort.

Both friends looked at each other in incredulity, their heads and garments soaking wet, and then turned their heads up towards the roof of a nearby warehouse where three Telerin elves shrieked in merriment like seagulls commenting on a fellow’s missed catch.

“Er…good evening, my lords?” The dark head of the king of the Noldor in Exile emerged from the waters. “Care to join me for a swim?” he added, uncertainty in his voice despite his winsome smile.

Exchanging a quick look, both princes stripped down to their leggings and jumped into the water with a cry of revenge.

***

“My lord? Lord Ereinion is here…”

Dawn was almost there, too, and Finarfin dragged himself from his state of contemplation. He had spent the night awake, trying to come to terms with the fact that he would have to face two outraged families, besides his own, because of those stubborn and spoilt princes’ sudden decision to remain in the lands of Hither.

There was nothing left for him to do there, he had admitted ruefully. There was no chance that he would make his stubborn daughter change her mind, his brother’s grandson was as good a king of the exiles as it could be expected under such circumstances, and he was sure that, with time and good counsel, most grudges would be set to rest, or, eventually, sent Eastwards.

His task was done, and he couldn’t be happier to forsake Middle-earth. He hated it there, he had to admit, for even used as he was to pain and longing, the feeling was so intense in those fast- changing lands that he found it almost unbearable to remain there and be constantly reminded of how much they had lost.

“Show him in, please, and send word for some food to be fetched, Calmarin,” the king ordered, standing up to greet his early visitor.

“My lord,” Ereinion bowed before the king, who motioned him to a vacant chair.

“Morning _, yonya_ ,” he smiled affectionately. “I hope everything is ready for the council?”

“It is, my lord.” If the younger elf had been surprised by the familiar address, he did not show. “I truly appreciate that you agreed to attend…”

“I will do whatever it is within my power to support you, you have but to ask,” Finarfin added earnestly, wondering about the cause for Ereinion’s squirming and fidgeting. He was holding a bundle in his clutched hands, something heavy wrapped up on a worn out burlap cloth, and was turning it distractedly in his hands.

One of the king’s aides came in with some food and drink and placed it discreetly upon a side table.

“What can I do for you, Ereinion?” Finarfin smiled kindly, a bit amused by the other’s plain discomfort.

“I...Well..” He shifted uncomfortably before finally placing the bundle on the table and pushing it towards Finarfin. “I should have done this before, but, honestly, I forgot.”

Finarfin extended his hands to unwrap the cloth, pulling apart its folded ends and uncovering a wooden box bearing a twelve-rayed star embossed on its lid -a seal he knew only too well.

He traced the relief with shaking fingers, feeling his breath catch in his throat. “How…when…?” he managed after some time, his voice a choked gasp.

“My father sent it to Círdan for safekeeping, short before the…Fifth Battle.” Ereinion’s voice was soft but steady. “I suppose he did have some misgivings about the outcome,” he added with a bitter smile.

Finarfin looked up for a moment and shook his head. “He knew where to send the things that were important to him for safekeeping…” he said in a thin voice. He extended his long fingers and opened the box carefully, slowly, as if dreading what it was about to reveal.

There, lying in a bed of rich red clothing, Finwë’s crown glistened in all its glory, its green, blue and red stones shimmering brightly, reflecting the morning light that filtered through the floating flap. Finarfin traced its rayed wings delicately, remembering how many times he had admired it when it had shone upon his father’s wise brow, in a time when hatred and swords were still unknown in the Blessed Realm and Finwë’s children were still a family, despite how strained the relationship had always been.

“It is yours now, Ereinion,” he said brusquely.

“It is not, my lord, “ Ereinion replied evenly.

Finarfin looked up to meet compassionate eyes, seeing the same longing and regret in Ereinion’s face, who was surely reminded of his own father and grandfather before him wearing it on happier days. “It is the crown of the High King of the Noldor, and it is only fair that it is returned to he who holds the title,” his brother’s grandson continued in a quiet voice.

“But...you…”

“Those I have sworn to serve and protect shall not bow to me because I wear Finwë’s crown,” Ereinion smiled offhandedly. “I will have to earn their respect and loyalty time and again with my deeds. Keep it, my king, and wear it with pride, for you are no less worthy of it than those who wore it before you,” he almost choked, taking a knee before the king.

“Come, _yonya_ ,” Finarfin said, motioning the young king up and pulling him into a tight embrace. “I am so proud of you,” he added softly.

****

“If you behave well, we may allow you to ride out of sight from time to time.”

He knew Círdan would know where to find him. Knowing the Shipwright was impervious to his frowns, he spared himself one and moved aside to make room for him on the rock.

He had hoped to hide and calm his nerves up there, on the cliff where Ingil had asked to have his halls erected. The Vanyarin prince had graciously offered that place for the council and had engaged his warriors in building an elegant and graceful pavilion walled with a deep blue canvas whose source was a complete mystery, since blue dyes weren’t exactly a commodity in camp.

“How well is _well_ exactly? he asked in a discouraged voice after a long silence.

Last weeks had been very busy for him, most hours of the day and well into the night spent managing the many little details that made up the delicate tracery of the apparently fluid life in such a huge encampment.

He had dealt with the architects, and had sent them exploring the surrounding lands, Elrond in tow to prevent them from getting lost or too enthralled in small details, and had discussed drafts and needs with them until very late every night, after spending long days touring the camp, listening to the needs and complaints of every group of elves and trying to set up a system that would allow their needs to be quickly known and attended without them having to queue and fight for the king’s attention. At least he had counted with the efficient -although at times exasperating- support of Erestor.

He had imparted justice on petty conflicts and minor quarrels, and had been routinely accused of favouring either his Noldorin kindred, or the Telerin, the Sinda or the Fëanorian’s sides.

He was tired, bored, and a bit frightened by the prospect of a long, immortal life spent in trying to sort out the fancies, grudges and whims of his unruly and extremely independent people, of being the target of everyone’s malcontent and the scapegoat for every frustration. His eyes strayed with deep longing to the mountains that towered in the horizon and the rolling lands and forests that might stretch beyond sight. Not for the first time he wondered how it would feel to ride away and get lost, and forget about duties and petty quarrels and paralysing self-doubt and overwhelming responsibilities.

“Mmm, let’s see…provoking an allied lord to a public sparring match, ruining an allied king’s dinner, picking on the king of the Edain, or verbal sparring with your father’s cousin’s Sindarin husband won’t help your cause…” Círdan sighed with his usual casualness.

“Círdan, I...” Ereinion was blushing crimson.

“On the other hand,“ the Shipwright waved him into silence, “dealing with Oropher’s provocations, reaching agreements with the dwarf-lord and the Hîrdawar, arranging a truce between Elros and Olvárin, helping the Edain learn to manage our forests, supporting Celebrimbor even against my best judgement, supporting the Peredhil and helping them feel that they belong here, taking care of each and every minor detail that required your attention, and of many that didn’t, and, above all, dismantling Erestor and Elrond’s unbecoming game in such a cunning and understated way do qualify as good prospects for you, young one,” he said with a wide smile that warmed Ereinion’s worried heart.

“Splashing unsuspecting princes, though, I’m not sure where to place it, but, all in all, I’m very proud of you, son,” he ended softly, patting Ereinion’s back.

Ereinion sighed, comforted by the support but still worried. “I am not sure that I am fit for this, Círdan,” he confessed. “I seem unaable to please anybody, and all my decisions are questioned and discussed as outrageous affronts to someone… what?”

Círdan was laughing heartily, a not so common occurrence, so Ereinion chose not to feel offended by the Shipwright’s merriment. “I am glad that at least I can provide amusement to you, though,” he said amiably. “Would you care to explain?”

Círdan was wiping tears that ran freely along his cheeks and smiled. “Sorry, lad, let me tell you, you may not be able to please everybody, but, at least, you try not to...”

“And that is good, how?” Even used as he was to his lord’s more than strange views, this piece of advice was strangely unsettling for him.

“It is, believe me. You have one and the most important quality to become a good ruler, Ereinion...”

“And that would be...”

“That you want to do it. You truly care for the people who surround you, and you do believe that it is your responsibility to care for their well-being. The rest can be learned, child, not even Ingil is free from mistakes, as Finarfin can tell us…”

Ereinion laughed in spite of himself and then sighed. “It is very difficult, though.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that it would be easy, young one?”

“ _Did grandfather Finwë have to fill in such loads of paperwork before moving the Quendi to Aman?”_ His father’s exasperated words in one of his long letters came to Ereinion’s mind. He sighed, then, remembering. _You’re neither a hostage nor a ransom for my mistakes, child. Yet you are a son of the house of Finwë, born and raised to serve and protect your people, and that is your fate, as well as your duty, as sure as it has been mine, and my father’s before me… “_ I know, I know” he admitted softly. “But yet… I never thought it...would become so…hard… It was easier in Balar…”

“It shall become easier with practice, child, do you remember when you first tried to sail your boat? You are good with people, Ereinion; you have a talent for leadership and for joining people around you. You shall not fail…”

“I’m not all that sure, but…at least I must try, mustn’t’ I?” he shrugged with an unconvinced smile.

“That’s the spirit, Gil-galad,” Círdan smiled approvingly, using the _anessë_ that had spread among the troops back in Balar and that now everybody used to address him.

“ _Whatever it is that you shall become, my child, you are, above all, my star and my light.”_ Fingon had been warmly affectionate in his written exchanges with his exiled son. That was the reason why Ereinion secretly cherished the name that had spread among his troops, _Gil-galad_ , because it somehow reminded him of the tall and kind elf he remembered mostly through a ream of carefully treasured parchments.

“You are not mocking me, are you?” He gave Círdan a crooked, wary smile.

“Were I, I would have called you _Brith-Galad…_ ”

“Of course.” He sighed. “It is well-thought, isn’t it?” he admitted with a tiny smile. “It’d even make me laugh, were it not for the contempt and scorn behind it.” he sighed.

“Take it as Oropher’s grudgingly manner of expressing admiration. He cannot honestly fault you for anything else…”

“If you say so...”

***

“My lords, welcome to this council. We have all been working restlessly for the last moons, and I am only too grateful for the efforts and dedication that you all have put into helping our people make themselves comfortable in this new land. Many things have been lost, but we can now look to the future with some hope, as we step into a new beginning. All of you have expressed concerns complaints and grievances,” he added evenly, casting a brief, if amused glance towards Oropher, “and I fear that not all shall be settled in this meeting, but at least I hope that we shall manage to set up the foundations for a stable council and an open and fluid relationship.”

Ereinion paused then and searched the faces around him.

The council had begun, _his council,_ and there was no turning back now.

**TBC**


	11. THe Council of Gil-galad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the council goes as smoothly as could be expected, Elrond and Erestor are justly rewarded for their dedication, Brith-galad becomes Gil-galad, and, everything apparently in order, the Second Age can eventually begin in hope.

“My lords, welcome to this council. We have all been working restlessly for the last months, and I am only too grateful for the efforts and dedication that you all have put into helping our people make themselves comfortable in this new land. Many things have been lost, but we can now look to the future with some hope, as we step into a new beginning. All of you have expressed worries, and even complaints,“ the king added evenly, casting a brief, if amused glance towards Oropher, “and I fear that not all shall be settled in this reunion, but at least I hope that we shall manage to establish the foundations for a stable council and an open and fluid relation.”

Ereinion paused then and searched the faces around him.

The council had begun, _his council,_ and there was no turning back now. 

Opposite from him at the other head of the long table, his royal and lordly guests sat; High King Finarfin in the middle, flanked on his right by Ingil and Olvárin, High Princes of Aman, and to his left by Elros son of Eärendil, Valar appointed King of the Edain, and Lord Gundaghâl, overlord of the dwarves of the Ered Luin, who looked overly pleased despite Ereinion’s subtle efforts to let him know that his people’s services would not be required in the building of the city. 

“I cannot understand why he insists on remaining here,” he had complained in exasperation to Erestor during one of the many long nights they had spent planning even the minor detail of the upcoming council. “I know Círdan insists that I am to be more diplomatic, but tell me, Erestor,” the young king was almost whining, “what are we going to do when a troop of dwarves calls at the doors with their picks and spades and start digging under our feet?” 

“Hmmm… if we have doors where they can call at by then, maybe we can keep them closed until Círdan figures out a solution?” Erestor had joked and they had let the matter rest. After all, it was Lord Gundaghâl’s problem, Ereinion had decided. 

He and Erestor had, too, spent many a long hour trying to devise an uncompromising seating arrangement at the council table, until Círdan had arrived and sentenced: “Let them free to choose. You will find out that deep drifts are smarter than Erestor’s scheming.”

Both knew better than to fight Círdan’s unintelligigble nautical metaphors, yet Erestor could not resist proposing a wager, and now Ereinion was sadly acknowledging defeat and wondering how on Arda his Nandorin counsellor and former tutor had _known_. 

After guiding kings, princes and dwarven lord to their appointed seats, Erestor and Elrond had remained at the entrance of the pavilion, greeting and announcing the rest of the attendants upon arrival. Ereinion watched in trepidation as Círdan’s forecasts were unfailingly fulfilled: Oropher, the Hîrdawar, Celeborn, two representatives of the wood elves from Ossiriand and Thargelion as well as Merenel, Círdan’s advisor, had taken seat to the king’s left side of the table, while the representatives of vanished noldorin realms, be them of noldorin or sindarin descent, sat to the right. 

“One in front of another, that is the best way to watch everybody’s faces, and control the slightest movements and most secret comments or glances. It is the best way to keep control of a meeting, young one, trust me,” Erestor had warned him.“The Lord and the Lady will choose separate sides of the table out of cunning, not of diverging loyalties...” 

He hadn’t been that sure, he had allowed himself to be dragged into a wager, and now he was conceding defeat, wincing at the smug grin upon Erestor’s face as Celeborn and Galadriel sat gracefully in opposite sides of the long table. Ereinion shrugged, though, at the thought of how he would wipe that infuriating grin from his former tutor’s face before the council was over. He nodded slightly and put on a properly defeated expression before continuing with the meeting. 

“It is in this spirit of cooperation that we have been working for some time now,” he continued, “and a good level of understanding has been reached. Basic needs are now seen to in all sections of the camp, even as our capable architects have almost completed the preliminary design of what shall become the first city and haven of the elves of Middle-earth in these new lands.” 

All heads turned briefly to where the architects sat in a long row behind the kings’ right side. A smug looking Celebrimbor nodded slightly. 

“Along the way all voices have been heard, and I am certain that many meetings and discussions have been held within the communities you all have been chosen to represent. All suggestions and ideas have been taken into account, studied and included in the designs whenever it has been possible…” 

“Indeed….” 

“And Lord Celebrimbor shall kindly explain the results to all of us in a few moments,” the king continued evenly, ignoring the Fëanorian’s extemporaneous snort. It had been a tiresome process indeed, what with Círdan’s people claiming for more room for their shipyards and wood elves demanding that houses and workshops were built on the trees, or almost. 

“Lord Celebrimbor, if you please…” 

“By your leave, my lord.” 

The tall Fëanorian stood up gracefully and bowed respectfully to the king. With a gentle wave of his hand he signalled two of his assistants to spread a delicately crafted map on the huge table. 

“As the king says, the City and Haven of the Elves of Middle-earth will take advantage of the natural protection and rich resources of this area, and shall become a model city in which traditions and styles shall blend with the environment in an unprecedented display of cooperation. Stone, metalwork and wood will share the space and mark our landscape, bearing witness to the alliances and mixed heritage that shall be the trademark of this city and this realm.” 

In an inspired speech, Celebrimbor made the rich drawings come alive before his enthralled audience: squares full of artists and musicians, markets full of goods and thriving traders, homesteads, workshops, gardens and orchards elegantly perched upon the soft slopes or lazily stretching in the wide plateau, while keeping their distance with the forest which almost touched the shore to the south. 

With a formal nod, Celebrimbor introduced the chief Telerin architect who explained the distribution of shipyards, quays, docks and workshops to be built upon the widest shore of the great firth. 

“Fishermen’s quays and havens shall be built in both cities,” Celebrimbor chimed in, yet the most adequate area for shipbuilding has been singled out here, in the place Lord Círdan called Mithlond and thus here we shall erect the most magnificent Elven Haven… in Middle-earth, of course," he added hastily, catching Olvárin’s warning glance. 

“You shall need to carve and move huge stones from the quarries in the mountains to build the port there, my friend,“ the Dwarf-lord interrupted, his face alight with interest at the prospect. 

“Only partly, Lord Gundaghâl, for I plan to carve most of it out of the stone there…” 

“We will love to help in that," the Dwarf-lord observed happily. “That’s going to be stonework worthy of our respective families’ renown, my lord…” 

“You have experience in building havens?” the Telerin architect chimed in, incredulity plain in his voice. 

“We dwarves are renowned for having carved out elven capitals, after all…” Lord Gundaghâl answered pompously. 

“And for having destroyed them, as well.” Oropher’s resentful remark came out louder than he must have expected, and a dense silence fell over the, until now, amiable council table. 

“You give us much credit, Lord Oropher,” the Dwarf-lord retorted, a mocking grin not wholly hidden under his recovering beard. “It was only one, after all...” 

Red in the face, and trembling in anger at the insult, Oropher was about to retort sharply when another voice chimed in. 

“Leave the dwarf alone, Oropher, he is right! And where were you, Doriathrim, most faithful of allies, when the dragon charged in the battle of Tumhalad?” It was Duilin of Nargothrond, only survivor of one of the many ill-fated Noldorin families that had followed Orodreth to that battle, “In vain we waited for Thingol’s help then…” 

Ereinion exchanged a quick, worried glance with Círdan, who sat calmly by his right side, and braced for the worst. Galadriel bit her lip and Celeborn clenched his fists, as all faces turned to them expecting some kind of answer. 

“Look who’s talking!” It was Fêrlong of Nevrast, an elf of Sindarin and Noldorin descent who had survived the fall of Gondolin and the Fëanorian’s attack on Sirion. “I must have been looking in the wrong direction, but I don’t remember seeing many of you at the Dagor Nirnaeth,” he said bluntly, pointing at both Oropher and Duilin. “But surely you were otherwise busy while we battled Morgoth’s forces…” he added scathingly. 

“And I didn’t see the Gondolindhrim’s shiny mails in the Bragollach, Fêrlong,” Arminas, one of Angrod’s captains chimed in harshly. “Did you, Annael?”

The grey elf who had fostered Tuor had been chosen as representative of the elves of Hithlum, since most of those of Noldorin descent had either perished in the Nirnaeth beside Fingon or had escaped the field with the Gondolin forces and become mingled with Turgon’s people. He had the good sense of shrugging noncommittally and murmuring something uncompromising. 

“So it seems that everybody holds a grudge against the rest,” Ingil summed up with his usual insight and his not-so-quiet silvery voice, while Finarfin seemed ready to stand up and walk away in a huff. 

“Oh, sure,” Merenel’s voice sounded exasperatingly amused amidst the general anger, “and we have not yet gotten to the first battle under the stars,” he added playfully, casting an amused glance towards Erestor. 

“Enough!” Ereinion’s voice boomed above the offended murmurs and angry remarks. “I have called this council under the misconception that our people are interested in settling down and having a new beginning here,” the king said, fixing his unruly council in a stern gaze. “ Young and inexperienced as I am, I must have been sorely mistaken. So, if you consider that discussing past grievances is a more pressing matter than the building, I am ready to call this council off, and I invite you to rejoin me when, if ever, all those matters are settled... Forgive my callousness,” he added with undisguised sarcasm, "but, since my life has been so safe and sheltered, I can hardly understand the hardships and grudges you’re arguing about...” 

An uncomfortable silence followed the king’s words. Everybody shifted in their chairs, avoiding each other’s faces. 

“As I was saying…” the Dwarf-lord chimed in, and for once even Oropher seemed grateful for his presence, “this would not be the first elven city or stronghold we would help build, and even if these are no more the times when we would accept pearls as means of payment, as it happened when we built Menegroth…” he said, looking pointedly towards Círdan, who met his gaze evenly. 

“I always wondered what Elu needed such huge amounts of pearls for,” Merenel chimed in thoughtfully -and loudly. “Don’t tell me that he paid you with those...” he added, not bothering to disguise his mirth. 

“To the point, Lord Gundaghâl, if you would,” Ereinion cut in, casting a warning glance to Círdan’s playful advisor and cursing the moment he had refrained from telling the Dwarf-lord privately that he could not pay for his services. Now he would be publicly exposed and that would not help boost the general respect towards his kingship, he thought with mounting despair. 

“The point is, King Gil-galad,” the Dwarf-lord kept on calmly, enjoying the attention, “that your councilor here and I have been bargaining until we found an agreement that suited both parties, thanks to your latest offer, which, I must say, I found most considerate towards our needs and only worth of a king of such subtle wisdom...” he added with a flourish. 

Ereinion was fighting hard not to let his amazement show. His councilor? The Dwarf had pointed in the general direction of the Sindarin-crowded side of the table, and that could only mean… Celeborn? He felt a sudden wave of panic wash over him, yet he managed to control the urge to hide under the table. 

“Would you be kind enough to enlighten the rest of my council?” he suggested, hoping that his voice sounded firmer than he felt and gripping the arms of his chair while he braced for the worst. 

“… the security on the road to the East, free access, while we work here, to the quarries, under yearly approved allowances, as well as special tariffs for trading caravans from the Ered Luin, and trading rights on special products with precedence over what might be offered by our kin in the East…those are the general terms of our agreement, my lord, which only awaits your confirmation,” the Dwarf-lord added with a brief bow. 

Ereinion heard the amazed gasps around the table but retained the presence of mind not to share them. He caught Celeborn’s brief nod, Finarfin’s satisfied grin and Círdan’s placid expression and sighed softly. 

“I am glad to hear that, Lord Gundaghâl. Master Erestor shall draft the final terms after we agree a basis upon which tariffs and allowances shall be negotiated. Your help and that of your people is more than welcome, my lord!” he added warmly. Then, surrendering to a wicked impulse he nodded briefly towards Celeborn. “Excellent achievement, Lord Celeborn,” he said regally. “My congratulations.” 

He was still enjoying the outraged look he had received from the Sindarin lord when Oropher’s voice chimed in. 

“Not that I care for your stones, but how shall you control that they do not overuse your quarries and get carried away in their delving? I ask just in case they ever develop an interest in _our_ forest...” he added in his insulting manner. 

“As it’s already been said,” the king answered patiently, “the allowances shall be discussed yearly, with the input of our architects and masons. Foresters would be called in for advice should they ever develop an interest in _the_ forest, Lord Oropher.” 

“Good. They were not when the Edain began destroying the forest, that’s why I asked,” the infuriating elf pointed out, a tinge of incredulity in his voice. 

Ereinion bit back a bitter retort. He had been in the rearguard, shepherding the last survivors and reluctant refugees across the mountains, the ruin of Beleriand close behind, in a nightmarish crossing few had heard of, while the Edain had started their fleet building. 

“I know,” he mildly acknowledged instead, “and your son kindly informed us of the problem, so we could reach an agreement with the Edain. You, my lord Oropher,” he kept on, raising his voice to command everybody’s attention, “have been crucial in the current state of affairs, and I would not let pass the chance to publicly acknowledge your efforts. Lord Oropher’s cooperation,” he addressed then the rest of the council enjoying the surprised look in Oropher’s face, “is a remarkable example of what we can achieve in this new land if we only learn to join forces and overcome suspicions. He not only spotted the problem, but volunteered to help with the solution, and I am sure that King Elros, too, would like to express his gratitude.” 

Ereinion leaned back on his chair as Elros, for once, took the hint and launched into an inspired praise of the help they had received from Oropher and his team of young foresters, while Oropher shifted uncomfortably in his chair, torn between pointing out that he had in no way or manner ever “volunteered” and enjoying the renown and praise Gil-galad was so shamelessly piling on him.

“So, my lords and lady,” Ereinion pointed at the map, “I have received every suggestion that has been made and have personally discussed it with the architects. These here are the plans of the cities and haven our people dreamt of. I assume that it is our mission now to make it real, if none opposes…?” 

After a brief silence, in which he collected approving nods, Ereinion continued even more animatedly. “So, the building becomes a priority. Lord Celebrimbor and his team of architects are devising the building plans, and shall coordinate the needs for resources and crews with Lord Gundaghâl and Merenel, who will be in charge of coordinating crews and supplies. All of you shall report to him regarding needs, workforce, schedules, availability and so on.” Ereinion met Erestor’s surprised and slightly hurt glance impassively and continued speaking. 

“Of course, hunting parties cannot be affected by these building schedules, nor will be the rest of the teams in charge of the general services in camp, or those charged with helping the fleet building,” he added, nodding towards Elros, who bowed in gratitude. “The council shall meet weekly, as we have already agreed, to discuss routine matters and oversee progress. The building commission shall meet as often as necessary. The building will take up many years of the sun, my lords, so we must get used to running several overlapping cities,” he added with a contagious smile. 

“And what of those of us who will not dwell in a city of stone?” Oropher’s inextinguishable enthusiasm was equal to the king’s, it seemed.

“You bring up another important matter, Lord Oropher, my thanks,” Ereinion smiled kindly. “As you may all remember, maintaining the security of the road to the East is one of the agreements we have just reached with our ally, Lord Gundaghâl. This means that we must immediately begin exploring and mapping the surrounding lands.” He made a pause then, to consider his next steps. Celeborn stubbornly avoided meeting his eyes, Oropher was fixing him in an expectant glare that somehow managed to look intimidating and the Hîrdawar nodded almost imperceptibly to him. 

“I have chosen a small force that shall be in charge of exploring and mapping, as well as contacting Edain and Elven settlements that may be found in the lands to the East. This force shall act on our behalf, with authority to establish agreements and alliances with those settlements. They shall begin by visiting Nenuial and bringing our greetings to the elves there, as soon as the Hîrdawar deems it appropriate,” he added, ignoring Celeborn’s curious glance. 

“We have agreed that Lord Celeborn and the lady Galadriel shall be of more use here for now, King Gil-galad,” the calm, soughing voice of the Hîrdawar was heard then. “We have decided that Lord Oropher could go there in their stead, leading those of our people who, as he puts it, wouldn’t feel comfortable living in a city of stone,” he added with a conciliatory smile. 

Much to Ereinion’s amusement, Oropher failed miserably in his efforts to conceal his surprise at this unexpected appointment. He gasped, gaped and looked around wildly, as if fearing some stale joke. 

“This is good news indeed for Lord Oropher, one would say,” Ereinion pointed out seriously. A raucous laughter rang across the table, while the Sindarin lord fought to recover his composure and cast him a strangely amused glance. 

“Knowing the layout of the lands to the East and their peoples remains a priority,” Ereinion added, regaining his council’s attention. “Some among us have dedicated a great deal of thought and work to the subject, so we have decided that Lord Elrond shall lead that force. He will act as our ambassador and herald, and, as Elu’s heir, he should be in the best position to set up alliances with our eastern kin,” he added quickly, before regretting his decision. 

He was rewarded by the grateful look the surprised Peredhel shot his way, so he bit back his bitterness at the half-elf’s obvious satisfaction at being allowed to depart the city. “Master Erestor shall go with him as his counsellor,” the king added, spying the impassive face of his former tutor who sent a filthy glance his way before nodding briefly in acquiescence while fighting an amused smirk of grudging admiration. “Both have shown remarkable interest in the noble art of map drafting, and such dedication could not be left unrewarded, so they shall be our messengers to the East. You wanted to add anything Master Erestor?” he added, pretending innocence. 

“Always at your service, my king…” Erestor answered tightly, hs eyes sparklng in merriment.

“My thanks. Lord Elrond, your first mission shall be escorting Lord Oropher and those departing with him to Nenuial, sending my greetings to the setllemnts there and helping them in hwatever they may need as they settle down. You shall report directly to us and your word shall be heeded as our word.” 

“You honour me, my lord,” the Peredhel’s voice sounded terribly young all of a sudden, “I won’t disappoint you!“ he added eagerly. 

“I know you will make me proud, Elrond,” the king smiled comfortingly, remembering his own awkwardness the day Círdan had entrusted him with his first command, not so long ago in elvish reckoning. “Lord Oropher,” he continued then, addressing the puzzled Sindarin Lord, “anything you may need in preparation for your departure must be coordinated with Lord Elrond. I also expect your kind cooperation, Lord Celeborn, in supplying both Lord Oropher and Lord Elrond with useful information about the lands and the peoples…” 

“As you command, King Gil-galad…” 

“Excellent. So, my lords and lady,” he pronounced, standing tall and waving everyone up, “we have new lands to explore, new cities to build and a new council that shall lead us through this challenge. I must say that I am most grateful for your support and your dedication, and I am sure that with your help, we shall, once again, thrive and progress in this new land. I deeply appreciate…what?” 

“We thought you would like to close the council in the open, my lord,” Erestor interrupted him in an obsequious manner that managed to put Ereinion on alert. “The architects have readied a beautiful model of the new city, the troops are outside, and I am told that Prince Ingil and his people shall play…” 

Ereinion narrowed his eyes at the smirk adorning Erestor’s face, fearing some kind of retaliation, yet the expectant faces around the table convinced him that if this was a prank, it was not Erestor’s sole doing. He nodded stoically and started walking outside, but Erestor caught him firmly by his arm and made him sit back. “Yet you must remain here until everything’s ready, my lord,” his counsellor added hurriedly, as the bulk of the council and royal guests hurried towards the entrance in what looked like a suspiciously merry bunch, Ereinion thought with mounting suspicion, grabbing his goblet and drinking avidly. 

“If all this is your doing, then you are even better than what I suspected….” The familiar grunt surprised Ereinion. He put down the goblet only to discover that Oropher was still sitting at the other end of the table. 

“It was team work, yet I will accept your compliments,” he retorted cheekily, and was surprised when the other laughed out loud. Ereinion looked around in suspicion; being left alone with an abnormally friendly Oropher was unnerving, and the fact that the rest of his council was outside engaged in some kind of mischief or another did nothing to appease his misgivings. 

“You are a good ruler, Ereinion. Not one I would be comfortable serving, yet a good one,” the Sindarin lord offered calmly. “Hasn’t Círdan told you that gaping is unbecoming in a king?” he added then, in what amounted to a friendly voice. 

“Has your wife threatened you?” Ereinion finally reacted. 

“That, too,” the Sinda agreed easily, “Yet I must say that I am quite impressed by what you’ve managed here, and now that I am certain that am leaving, I thought I might as well let you know…” 

“I would have never forced you to remain…” 

“I almost wished you had tried...” 

“I wish you well, Lord Oropher, and as far east as possible...” 

“That’s something I can do to please you, King Gil-galad…” 

“Now, I am overly satisfied, Lord Oropher…” 

“Do not press your luck, lad…I may yet be around for some time, until I am sure that I can leave _my_ forest under the Edain and your people’s care….” 

“I can live with that, knowing that you are finally bound east,” Ereinion shrugged. “I have survived worse things…” 

“Oh, I know you have,” Oropher’s voice was unusually warm, and he gave the king a kind of chagrined, sympathetic look. ”And I apologize if I sometimes forget it,” he added in a low, quite regretful voice. 

“I accept your apologies, Lord Oropher. It seems we both care deeply for our people… ” 

“We are ready… What are you doing here, Oropher?” Celeborn entered the tent and frowned in surprise, looking from one side of the table to the other. 

“I was receiving some last instructions from Gil-galad,” Oropher said, standing up easily and bowing slightly to Ereinion, “as I know nothing of that model or whatever it is that you have been plotting with the Dwarf…” he added haughtily, looking at his kinsman with plain disapproval. 

“One last thing, Lord Oropher,” Ereinion chimed in from his place at the head of the table, and he waited for the Sindarin lord to turn his attention to him. “Be kind and respectful towards Lord Elrond, I warn you, or you shall know my wrath.” 

A small smile played upon the Sindarin lord’s fair features as he nodded graciously. ”As you command, King Gil-galad…” 

“And now, let’s see what Lord Celeborn has concocted with the help of Lord Gundaghâl,” Ereinion sighed as he stood, striding purposefully to the entrance and motioning for the two Sindarin lords to follow him with an unconscious and almost perfect wave of his hand that caught him by surprise. He breathed in deeply, pulled the flap open and stepped outside. 

****** 

“Behold the King!” a voice greeted him, as Ingil’s people began one of their enthralling tunes. 

Ereinion looked around in surprise. An assortment of Edain, Telerin, Noldorin and Vanyarin warriors from Valinor formed beside a group of his own proud and mixed army. All as one, they saluted as Ereinion walked past them towards the place where Círdan stood, flanked by all of his counsellors and his royal guests, before a table covered in a blue and silver banner that surely hid the model.

The music ceased the moment he stood before Círdan. He watched in anticipation as the Shipwright gave a brief signal with his hand, and Celebrimbor, who stood behind the table, pulled the banner back with an elegant flick of his skilled hands. 

Ereinion could not hold back an amazed gasp at the sight of the glistening, almost blinding beauty of the arms lying under the blue and silver banner. A tall helm of wrought mithril adorned with gemstonesp, a powerful shield set with bright jewels that shone like silmarils on a deep blue field, and a deadly-looking spear that bore a remarkable resemblance to his old and beloved Aeglos, except for the fact that its point was now mithril inlaid and it thrummed all along its mighty length with a hidden song of power. 

“But… this…” he looked around in confusion, from Círdan to the smiling dwarf; of course, he thought, where else could the mithril have come from, to Celebrimbor’s smug smile, to Finarfin’s paternal expression, to Ingil and Olvárin’s friendly winks, to his counsellors expectant grins, and he finally shook his head in disbelief, while Círdan lifted the helm and fitted it on his head. 

“This has been achieved with kind and willing cooperation from everybody in camp, my lord,” the hipwright informed him. 

“Lord Gundaghâl kindly supplied the mithril,” Celebrimbor chimed in.

“And Lord Celebrimbor first began collecting jewels around the camp,” Finarfin added in an even voice, flashing a sincerely grateful smile towards his half-nephew. 

“I…” Ereinion was beyond words, as his hands caressed the firm shaft of his spear, its lineage elegantly inlaid in mithril. _“I am Aeglos, fire’s bane”_ , it read beside her wielder’s name, in Tengwar and Cirth loaded with Fëanorian power songs. 

Even Arien stopped to admire the gallant king when he lifted the shinning crystal-set shield and wielded the mighty spear, and a powerful cry came out from the assembled troops an resounded in the harbour, and onto the shipyards and echoed in the forest. “King Gil-galad, King Gil-galad!” their voices greeted him in praise and love. 

And to everybody in camp who lifted their heads as the cry reached their ears, it seemed that a star had actually taken residence among them, so bright he shone under Arien's loving rays and in the eyes of his faithful people upon the tall cliff. 

Before he could react, Círdan stepped before him and went down to one knee. 

“As I did before, I do it now, and I pledge my faith and allegiance to you, Ereinion son of Fingon, of the house of Finwë, King Gil-galad, and acknowledge you as our High King.” 

Following the Shipwright’s example one after another his counsellors pledged their faith to him while Ereinion stood there, tall and stern, receiving their homage for what it was, the duty he had been born and raised to fulfil. 

“We are friends and allies, King Gil-galad,” the Hîrdawar said with an open smile, almost closing the long line of counsellors. “I entrust you with the well-being and protection of my people while they remain in your city and your lands, and offer you the friendship and alliance of all those who bow to my authority from this land to the easternmost forests of Middle-earth. Should you call to us in need, we will not fail to come with what help we may offer,” he added seriously, bowing before the young Noldorin king and pulling at Oropher’s tunic to force him to bow, too. 

“You honour me with your friendship and your trust, Hîrdawar,” Ereinion answered, “and both shall be honoured in turn, while my kingdom lasts,” he added seriously, clasping the Hîrdawar’s arms and sealing their friendship before turning at last to Galadriel and Celeborn. 

“My lord,” she curtsied before him and bowed her head in graceful submission, offering him a charming smile, while Celeborn stood stiffly by her side. “I pledge my allegiance to you as Lord of the House of Finwë in exile, as well as our High King,” she said simply. Ereinion took her hand and kissed it respectfully.

“I am honoured by your trust my lady,” he said softly, “and I dare ask once again for your kind help and counsel, if you’d ever grant my wish…” 

“I am yours to command, my king,” she answered easily. “Yet ,if it is a position in your council what you want to discuss, then I must bow to another’s will first..” she added playfully, nodding to her lord. 

“Ah, but your lord already holds such a position in my council, my lady, or at least he has been acting as if he did,“ Ereinion retorted with a wicked smile, “so he wouldn’t be so cruel as to deny you the same entertainment, would you, Lord Celeborn?” the king turned now to face the Sindarin lord and locked eyes with him. 

“I…” For once, Celeborn the Wise seemed at a loss, so he chose to bow before the king and pledge his faith in a simple, yet heartfelt way. ”You’re a worthy and honourable king, Gil-galad, and I’ll be very proud to serve as your counsellor, for as long as you have me,” he offered at last. It was far more than what Ereinion had even dreamed of ever obtaining, so he simply smiled and bowed, accepting the pledge. 

“Please, my lords,” Gil-galad then turned to his powerful and noble guests from beyond the sea, tall and proud as his father had been. “Bear witness, and let it be known in Aman that Ereinion son Fingon of the House of Finwë, and foster son of Círdan, vows to serve and protect all the elves of Middle-earth against darkness and danger with his very life. This I swear before you all, and may Manwë and Eru help me fulfil my duty as you deserve,” he added in a strong voice, putting his right hand to his heart and bowing to the audience. 

****

“Bright toys, young one,” Olvárin observed, playing with the king’s spear. “Now, none shall ever dare call you _Brith-Galad_ again,” he added in a louder voice, nodding inocently as Oropher cast a dark glance from where he sat with his wife and son. 

The day had passed in celebration, as a spontaneous flow of elves had started climbing the cliff to bow to their king, and now they all sat in comfortable disarray, watching as Arien began her long descent, enjoying the peaceful evening.

“Keep this, Ereinion, you may want to make use of it…” a silvery voice brought him out of his contemplation, and Ereinion looked up to see Ingil standing before him, the now ever-present seabird perched –rather entangled- upon his golden head, handling him a roll of parchment. 

“What’s that?” he frowned, remembering Erestor and Elrond’s accursed prank. 

“The plans for my halls. You should keep this cliff for your residence,” he added, waving around with his long hand. “You’ll have nice views, a great sward, the forest, it is the best place, trust me...” 

Ereinion looked up at that distant relative and smiled openly. “My thanks, Ingil, for this and all your past kindness,” he said, and then, “I take it that you intend to depart, then?” 

“It’s about time, isn’t it?” Ingil smiled, “You seem to have everything under control...” 

“Why don’t you come back with us, Gil-galad?” Olvárin chimed in playfully. “You could leave Finarfin in charge, he actually wants to remain, yet he doesn’t know how to put it…” 

“I hear you, son of Olwë!” 

“I believe that you should leave a ship behind for him, Olvárin, I agree that he’s not yet ready to depart,” Ingil added seriously, pretending he had not heard Finarfin’s outraged reply. 

“I believe I rather not, Ingil, my father would be so pleased if Earwen’s husband finally learnt to build his own ship!” 

“The Edain could teach him…” 

“I doubt it... they’re far too busy with their own fleet, and trust me, it is not that such feat hasn’t been tried before, yet the Elf won’t get the basic principles, he will insist on stone-carved masts…” 

“Even I can see fault there,” Ingil acknowledged loyally. 

Lulled by the muffled chuckles and open laughter around him, Ereinion sat back and let his mind drift away in peace. Surely that was a new age and it could not begin in a more auspicious way. He had the trust of his people and he would not betray that. They would do well, he promised himself with a contented sigh.

**TBC**


	12. New Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Finarfin practices the noble art of gaping, Elros finally grows into his kingly demeanour and Celeborn experiences Gil-galad’s unique way of ruling. 

**Valinor, Second Age of the Sun. Year 32.**

“You sent for me, Uncle?” Queen Indis entered the high terrace in Ingwë’s palace quietly.

High King Ingwë turned to the tall, blond lady with deep, blue-grey eyes and a charming, mysterious smile. “I need to see your son immediately!” 

He paced the white terraces that looked towards the sacred slopes of Taniquetil restlessly -the sight did nothing to appease his temper. The folds of his deep blue robe danced in unusual disarray at his impatient, graceless movements. 

“As you command, my lord!” She who had once been the Queen of the Noldor bowed deeply and left as silently as she had entered, waving her youngest son in.

Finarfin took a deep breath and stepped in. “You called for me, my lord?” 

High King Ingwë almost jumped at the sound of his voice, turned around wildly to look at his visitor in astonishment. 

“How… when?” The High King was gaping in a very unkingly manner. He even cast a brief glance upwards and around, as if expecting to see Thorondor leaving his private gardens at any moment. “What are you doing here?” he finally blurted. 

Finarfin arched his brow slightly at this unexpected lack of control. 

“My mother said that you wanted...” 

“Yes of course, but...how! I mean, it was but a moment ago!” 

Finarfin was even more puzzled now. “I arrived this morning, of course,” he explained cautiously, “I am on my way to attending Lord Námo’s summons...” 

“It matters not.” The High King waved away his nephew’s explanations, not even bothering to wonder why the Lord of Mandos would be summoning the High King of the Noldor. He had more pressing matters in his mind, apparently. 

“I want to know,” the Vanyarin king began in a serious, almost threatening voice. “No, I _demand_ to know what you did to my son!” 

It was Finarfin’s turn, and he gaped masterfully. 

“My… my lord, I don’t…” 

The King resumed his restless pacing and cast a filthy look towards his niece’s youngest son. 

“I expected that you would take care of him, Arafinwë. He had never before left Valinor, had never before seen evil, or mortal creatures, and tell me, what did you do to him?” he accused. 

Finarfin fought the urge to turn around and walk away. 

He also bit back the impulse to remind the High King that his only son had been an adult for a long time before Finarfin was born. 

He refrained from pointing out that neither had he ever left Valinor or seen mortal creatures before the War of Wrath…

He sighed instead, and followed his caring, empathic nature. 

“I don’t understand, my lord,” he said in his soft voice. “What’s wrong with Ingil?” 

“What’s wrong?” The High King turned to face him and raised his arms in despair. “ _Everything_ is wrong,” he claimed dramatically, resting his long hands on Finarfin’s shoulders and shaking them in his urgency. “I followed Lord Manwë’s advice and sent him to Irmo,” he said, lowering his voice in secrecy. “It worked wonders for Eonwë, you know?” he added confidentially, “since the Herald was a bit _frenzied_ when he returned from Middle-earth...Want to know what happened?” 

Finarfin produced the blank expression he had mastered after long yéni pretending to follow Olwë and Olvárin’s endless conversations about ships, and nodded in polite interest to his mother’s uncle and High King. 

“He was banished from Lórien! My son! Lord Irmo complained that he was disturbing his peace! And that he pretended to rearrange the layout of his gardens, and that he had complained about such waste of space and had begun drawing plans for new arrangements!” The High King seemed now close to tears. Rage, worry and humiliation showed clearly on his fair face. “He’s been banned from Lórien, Arafinwë, can you believe that?” 

Finarfin was fighting hard to bit back his amusement.

He had hardly seen Ingil in those last years after their return from Middle-earth, short after Ereinion’s -no, Gil-galad’s, council he corrected himself. He had been too busy in Tirion trying to come to terms with the fact that all his family was lost to him, and helping those settling down in Eressea. He now wondered how his irrepressible cousin had adjusted to the calm pace of life in Valmar. 

“Look at him!” Ingwë’s pained sigh stirred again his compassionate nature. As Finarfin turned to follow his uncle’s indications, he could not hold back a smile at the sight of his tall cousin walking towards them, crossing the tended garden at a carefree, relaxed pace. He had forsaken the Vanyarin elaborate style and held his long, blond hair in a simple, thick braid after the wood elves’ practical fashion. He was clad in grey, loose trousers and a white linen shirt, the kind Círdan’s mariners used. He jumped nimbly over a fence and waved to them with his open, knowing smile. 

“And now he says he intends to depart again,” Ingwë’s voice was now a whisper. “Do something, Arafinwë, I beg of you,“ the High King pleaded softly. “It is your fault, after all,” he added as a parting shot, shaking his head and entering his palace in a huff. 

“It is not… my lord, I did not…” he tried to call back, to no avail.

“Finarfin!” Ingil’s silvery voice called from the garden. “Good to see you, Cousin!” 

Finarfin gave up trying to convince his worried uncle that whatever happened to Ingil was not his fault, and turned his attention to his cousin instead. Now that he was closer, Finarfin could see that he was wearing wristbands and ankle bands with singing stones in the manner of lost Brithombar, too. The king of the Noldor rolled his eyes in disbelief. 

“I apologize for not visiting in Tirion, Arafinwë,” Ingil said, jumping over the last fence and climbing the stairs to where his cousin had taken seat, “but I’ve been quite busy,” he added, clasping Finarfin’s arms in greeting and sitting by his side. 

“Yes, rearranging Irmo’s gardens, I have heard,” Finarfin prodded. 

“Oh, he told you!” Ingil let escape an amused chuckle, looking perfectly unconcerned by the fact that a Vala had banished him from his gardens. “He is fretting,” he confided, nodding towards the palace. 

“He worries...” Finarfin corrected softly, but the rest of his sentence was cut by a strange, sharp, happy shriek that pierced his ears as a blur of grey flew past him and landed abruptly upon Ingil’s shoulder. 

“So, she’s still around, I see,“ Finarfin observed calmly, as the stubborn, faithful, smitten seabird that had followed the prince of the Vanyar from the shores of Middle-earth nibbled affectionately at the lord’s ear. 

“Yavanna granted her the life of the creatures of Valinor,” Ingil smiled affectionately, caressing her glistening feathers. “She mated in the North and made friends with Elwing, but she never fails to come to visit,” he added fondly, “although now she rather brings news,“ he added with a mischievous grin. 

“No more sardines, then? Finarfin smiled in turn, remembering the dedicated courting Ingil had been subjected to by the stricken bird. 

“She has her own fledglings to feed now, Finarfin,” Ingil informed seriously. 

“I see. And what news does she bring now from the North?” Finarfin asked, only half-jokingly. 

“She says that Eärendil shall be guiding the Edain to their appointed land in this season...” 

Finarfin cast a worried look towards his cousin, remembering Ingwë’s last words. 

“Lord Ulmo has placed an island in the middle of the Belegaer,” Ingil continued, completely unawares of the intent look upon his cousin’s face. “And the lady Yavanna has filled it with all kind of wonders, it seems. Elros, on his part, has finally managed to complete his fleet, so they are ready to depart…” 

”You don’t intend to travel there, do you?” Finarfin interrupted him bluntly, and almost sighed in relief at the astonished, mildly outraged look upon his cousin’s face. 

“Why would you say such a thing? Oh, I see, my father told you...” 

“Ingil, your father worries for you...” 

“Well, he should not; I am old enough to make my own decisions. I just don’t want my daughters to live ignoring that there are many things out there; Elves who never spoke to a Vala, evil things and dangers, and suffering and hope, something completely apart from the peace and happiness we have always known in Valmar…that is why I have decided to settle down in Eressëa for a time,” he explained to his puzzled cousin. 

“In Eressëa?” Finarfin did not remember gaping so frequently since returning from Middle-earth. 

“Well yes, of course! You really thought I intended to travel back to Middle-earth, did you?” 

“I…” the image of Ingil announcing that he would have his halls erected upon the tallest cliff of Lindon suddenly hit Finarfin, and he shrugged. ”Well, you almost convinced me that you intended to remain there,” he hit back defensively. 

“Oh, but I meant it!” the golden prince of the Vanyar laughed out loud remembering. “I was so confused by then that I honestly believed that the only way to overcome the lure of those lands was to remain there and embrace it wholly…” he offered thoughtfully. 

They sat in silence for a while, each lost in memories of that time. 

“And…what happened, Ingil?” Finarfin finally asked cautiously. “What made you change your mind?” 

“I just came to understand another fragment of the song of Arda,” the prince said simply. “My father feared to travel back, feared he would be stricken by the memories of the time before the March,” he explained to his baffled cousin. “He warned me before departing, told me not to pay heed to the voices of Middle-earth… and… I was too afraid of what we would find there…”

He toyed distractedly with the bird’s beak. “Only when I managed to overcome my fear and listen intently to what the rocks and trees and waters had to say was I able to understand that it is the same song that runs trough the veins of Arda, Finarfin. We, _Elves of Light,_ as we proudly call ourselves, know but one of its many chords…” 

Finarfin looked into the blue eyes of his cousin and almost drowned into the deep, ancient wisdom that had already been there when he was but a child who climbed eagerly his tall cousin’s knees and listened in awe to his tales. 

“Were we wrong, then?” he asked in a faint whisper, dreading the answer as if it were a long- awaited sentence. 

“I think not, cousin,“ the Vanyarin prince said kindly. “Our fathers did as they saw fit, and who would have denied the light of Aman who beheld it in its full glory? But they were not wrong, either, those who remained behind then, or those who forsook the Blessed Realm later, or those who chose to stay here despite the loss of the Trees,” he added softly, reading deeply into his cousin’s troubled heart. 

“You comfort me with your wisdom, Ingil,” Finarfin managed in a choked gasp, sighing heavily as if a burden had been lifted from his chest. 

“I am glad to hear that, cousin, for yours has not been an easy lot, of that I’m well aware… Yet I will keep you not any longer,” he added, standing nimbly and pulling Finarfin up along with him. “I must try to convince my father that I have not been beguiled by Melko, and it is not wise that you keep Lord Námo waiting,” he added with a friendly wink. 

“How long will you remain in Eressëa?” 

“Oh, who knows? But you are welcome to visit there, although I am sure that you are going to be far too busy to even consider it,” he added mysteriously. Then, ignoring Finarfin’s quizzical glance, he pulled him into a tight embrace and then urged him towards the stables. 

“Go, cousin. Our paths are different, yet Eru looks kindly upon each of his children, no matter how twisted and darkened the road may seem to them at times…” And with that, he turned his back on his puzzled cousin and entered the palace with purposeful strides, the seabird clinging to his long braid. 

Finarfin mulled over his cousin’s wise words on the long ride to Mandos.

For the first time in more than five hundred years of the sun he allowed himself to dwell upon memories of the fateful days that had followed the death of the Trees, and to reflect upon his own decisions and those of his family. 

He allowed himself to grieve openly for his siblings, and his nephews, and his own children, and to curse their stubbornness and pride, and to cleanse the guilt that had since then ate at him. At long last he finally granted himself a long needed absolution, acknowledging, as Ingil had wisely reminded him, that each of them had followed their appointed path and that it was only _estel_ left for them to hold on to, the certainty that, in the end, Eru’s will would be made clear for them all. 

Deep in his healing thoughts, he did not notice that he had arrived at the threshold of Námo’s impressive halls, nor did he register the blond, tall, shiny figure that stood beside the Lord of Mandos, looking at him with barely hidden anticipation. 

Abruptly brought out of his musings by the kind greeting of the Vala, Finarfin raised a tear-streaked face and looked into the expectant, anxious, eager, well-known and long-missed smile of his eldest son. For the third time in that day, he gaped gloriously. 

**Forlindon, Second Age of the Sun. Year 32.**

“We now forsake the lands of our birth and hard toil, with our hopes high and our hearts warmed by the love and light we have known in Middle-earth. We leave behind our blood and our dead, kin and friends, in the certainty that this parting shall not last forever. Such is the way of my kin, to wither and pass away in but just a whisper to the eyes of the elder race. Yet our memory is not lesser than that of the Eldar. From father to children the tale of our debt shall pass on, and our mutual friendship and alliance shall be honoured for as long as my line endures.” 

King Elros stood on the wooden pier before the ship he had built with his own hands and Círdan’s help. Before him, High King Gil-galad stood with a proud, encouraging smile upon his stern face. Beside him, to this right, Lord Elrond Peredhel, the king’s herald and ambassador, clad in travelling clothes, nodded in appreciation at his brother’s words. Gil-galad’s counselors formed in a solemn line behind the king. A heavy silence blanketed the crowded dock.

To a casual observer it would seem that time had not touched either of the Peredhil’s features, as both looked youthful and strong as if they were still in their prime years. The traces of last night revelries were equally noticeable on both faces, and the faintest threads of white were not yet visible upon the king’s brow. 

The Shipwright stood to a side, a strained expression on his usual collected face, as his eyes travelled restlessly upon the waters and to the wide bay, where the bulk of the fleet of the Edain pitched expectantly, awaiting the signal to finally depart to their appointed lands. 

“May the Valar shine on you and your people till Arda lasts, King Gil-galad,” Elros kept on, his voice slightly choked now. “Forsake not my people, for they shall never desert you, should you ever call upon them in need,” he added seriously, bowing deeply before the High King of the Elves. 

“May the star of your father lead you safely to your blessed lands, under the winds of Manwë, King Elros,” Ereinion answered evenly in his strong, pleasant voice. “We are kin and allies, Eldar and Edain, and that alliance shall be honoured for as long as a child of the house of Finwë walks the lands of Middle-earth. May your life be long and fruitful, and may your kingdom flourish under your wise rule and that of your House.” And saying thus he embraced the King of the Edain tightly, as Eärendil cast his bright light upon them in the morning sun. 

“Take good care of my brother, my lord, I beg of you...” Elros whispered in the king’s embrace. 

“You have my word,” the king answered soberly, stepping back and allowing Elrond to embrace his brother one more time. 

It was a long goodbye, marked by the eagerness which the Edain did not manage to conceal, and the sadness hanging around those lingering and contemplating a parting that was to last beyond the circles of the world. 

At last, Elros smiled to his friends and kin and for a moment he was again the eager, impudent half-elven youngster who had brightened with his antics the first years of the mixed encampment that was still visible among the imposing walls of the growing city. He winked a last time to his brother, then bowed deeply and climbed his ship without looking back. 

A deep horn blew from top of the westernmost cliff of Forlindon as the king’s ship set sail following the bright trail of Eärendil, and a myriad of horns answered its call, the many ships crowding the long firth of Mithlond eagerly announcing their departure. 

“By your leave, my lord…” 

Elros’ ship was still clearly visible in the horizon when Elrond took his leave. 

“Go, Lord Elrond, there must be other things that need your attention,” the king nodded evenly. “We shall meet in the sward at noon,” he added, addressing the rest of his friends and counsellors, who still followed the fleet with sorrowful eyes. 

“It took us a bit longer than ten sun-rounds, yet you managed to make a great king out of Elros, Ereinion, I am proud of you,” Círdan joked softly behind him. 

Ereinion knew that those last months had been particularly difficult for the Shipwright. Memories of the time when he had helped Tuor first, and Eärendil later, build up the ships that would take them away forever had been inevitably brought about by the works in the small shipyard that served the northern part of the city, when Elros had at last undertaken the task of building his own ship. 

“Well, it was not your fault that it took them so long to master the basics of shipbuilding, my lord,” he quipped. “You, on the other hand, managed to make a good mariner out of him, so _I_ am very proud of you as well!” he joked, and was rewarded when a clear laugh escaped the mariner’s throat. 

“I am glad to be of service, my King,” Círdan smiled, passing an arm over his foster son’s broad shoulders and steering him to the steep stone stair leading to the upper side of the city. “Now, by your leave, I shall attend to my duties as you go and get ready for yours…” he added softly, pushing the king towards the half-finished stairway. “I will be up there at noon,” he promised. 

With a deep sigh Ereinion began the long ascent. The years had passed swiftly as the works progressed in a satisfying manner. The cities grew steadily, the camp marched smoothly and his people were thriving in their caring, generous manner. 

Watching Elros depart to his new land had not been easy, yet now Ereinion was faced with another difficult task. 

Elrond’s missions abroad had been more than successful, and he had displayed an unusual talent for diplomacy, as well as a taste for exploring and mapping the new lands. He had set up a solid alliance with the elves in Nenuial, with Oropher’s unexpected cooperation, and had managed to complete a detailed range of maps of the lands around Nenuial and to the east, with Erestor’s help and wise counsel. 

The king had made sure that his herald’s travels were frequent enough to keep him busy, yet not as extended as to keep him away from Lindon and his brother for long periods. He had kept Elrond stationed in the city for the last few sun-rounds, polishing and completing his maps and his notes while enjoying his brother’s company as Elros finished his preparations.

Now that Elros had at lasst departed, Elrond and Erestor were to undertake their longest trip yet, a trip that would finally take the peredhel and his company to Hadhodrond and the forests beyond the mountains, a journey that would most likely last several sun-rounds. 

Ereinion sighed as he reached the top of the cliff and looked around at the maze of stonewalls that were supposed to be turned, somehow, into his home; his _palace,_ as Celebrimbor remarked pompously. 

He had been a child when he had departed Eithel Sirion, and his memories of his grandfather’s stronghold were distorted by his young age and his small size at that time. Since then, Ereinion had only known Círdan’s comfortable house in Eglarest, their humble abode as refugees in Balar and the austere comfort of his tent while on the battlefield and a settler in Lindon. Now, he was a bit overwhelmed by the impressive dimensions of what was supposed to become his permanent residence. 

He sat down on a discarded stone facing the sward, mulling on the memories of a conversation he had overhead in the first Midyear’s festival in those new lands. 

_“I would look for Maglor…and maybe I would settle down among those elves who forsook the March, and forget who I am and whence I came, and marry a beautiful elleth and set up a family and a household that would not be swept away by time or chance...”_

For a while, Elrond had been content to travel back and forth, always bringing exciting news from the lands of the East, torn between exploring further ahead and coming back to spend time with his brother. With Elros definitely gone, there was nothing to tie the remaining Peredhel to his kin, the king acknowledged sadly, fearing that he had failed miserably in his self-appointed task of making Elrond feel like he belonged. 

Arien was tall in the horizon when the company led by Elrond and Erestor arrived at the sward and bowed to the king and the rest of the company assembled there to see them off. 

“Have a safe journey, and may Elbereth guard you, my lords,” the king clasped each and every one of his warriors warmly and wished them a successful mission and a peaceful and safe return. He embraced Erestor, and then the Peredhel, and stepped back to watch them mount. 

“We are ready to depart, my lord, we only await your leave,” Elrond announced sternly after checking his company.

Ereinion stepped forth and put a hand upon his kinsman’s leg. “Come back, Elrond,” he pleaded softly. “Will you?” 

“Of course I will, my lord,“ the Peredhel answered softly, clasping briefly the hand resting upon his leg. "My home and my family are here," he added with a tiny smile that warmed the king’s heart. 

“Go then, with our blessings!” 

Following Elrond’s raised hand, the company began its slow march in an ordered column, followed by the king and his counsellors’ gazes. 

“Letting go of those we love is no minor feat, child.” Círdan pressed a comforting hand upon his shoulder, and Ereinion gave him a small, grateful smile. Círdan had always held that Fingon’s most valiant deed had been sending his young son to the Havens. It was a strange comfort to be reminded of it at that moment. 

“My lord?” 

Dragging his eyes from the mounted company, Ereinion turned to see one of the chief masons standing before him. 

“Yes?” 

“Lord Celebrimbor sends word that we are running out of those huge blocks for the foundations of the haven in the southern city…” 

Ereinion fought his first impulse to run and find a solution, and he searched his tunic instead. “I’d swear I had been carrying a couple of those with me this morning…” he quipped among the chuckles of his counsellors. He looked around and his face brightened up suddenly in a mischievous smile as he saw the chance to announce a decision he had come up with some time ago. “But I advise you to turn to Lord Celeborn for this matter. He has just become Lord of Harlindon, you see, and he can surely remind Lord Celebrimbor that there is a formal procedure for this type of requisitions that does not involve the king going to the quarries to attend to the architects’ needs… Lord Celeborn, if you please?” 

Enjoying the amused look on Celeborn’s eyes at the sudden -and highly unconventional- appointment, Ereinion turned his back stubbornly on the sea, where Elros’ fleet was still clearly visible, and refused to look east to where Elrond’s company skirted the forest and headed for the dwarf-road of old. The Peredhil were now facing their own new beginnings, he told himself, and he was responsible for those who remained. 

“My lord Círdan, how are things progressing in Mithlond, I understand that the shipyards are taking longer than scheduled, is there any way I can help?” he asked, turning his attention to practical matters. 

He had a city to build and a kingdom to rule, in a land that was now free of evil. With the help of the Valar, he would see his people grow and thrive in peace for long ages. 

**THE END.**

Thank you for reading. I sincerely hope you enjoyed yourselves at least as much as I did writing this.

This is an old story, a bit edited, the first I wrote in an ongoing series about the life and deeds of Gil-galad. I will be posting the rest here.


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